Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe
by el bastardo
Summary: 6 Months Post-Game, Fenris and Anders travel together to rescue The Champion from the real Magister Danarius. Male!Hawke x Fenris, Male!Hawke x Anders, Fenris x Anders. SLASH. Lengthy Author's Note for details.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:  
**

Six months after the events of DA:II, The Champion of Kirkwall and his constant companion The Tevinter Fugitive, have vanished from the public eye and are exploring the north coast of Ferelden. The Tevinter Magister, Danarius, having foiled Fenris' attempts to kill him in Act II, returns to reclaim his property and captures the Champion instead.

Fenris, aided (or hindered) by Anders, must strike out together through a world in pieces, to rescue the man they both love and somehow keep from destroying each other in the process.

**Pairings:**

Male!Hawke x Fenris, Anders x Male!Hawke (unrequited... for now), Fenris x Anders

There may also be some OCs scattered in and around that main triangle. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

Er, so, I had no intention to ever write Dragon Age fic. I mean, I loved the games, I got completely engrossed, but I didn't want to try writing in such a huge environment, where everyone's experience with the story is different. But then this happened.

**Background / How DA I and II Panned Out:**

- Alistair is King of Ferelden, Loghain is dead and Anora was locked in a tower

- Carver and Bethany died (I'm not sure how I managed that)

- Isabela ran off

- Rogue!Male!Hawke with default appearance, with the exception that he shaved his beard. Judging by the conversation choices, he is certainly roguish and has a pretty terrible sense of humour.

- Hawke romanced both Fenris and Anders, but only consummated with Fenris (poor Anders). At the end of the game, though, Hawke supported Anders and fought against the Templars.

This is hard... Half the fic is explaining the back ground information :P

I haven't played any of the DLC, so I hope I'm not trampling too much on cannon.

**Warnings:**

Spoilers for Dragon Age I and II; man sex; drama llamas; humour; violence

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter One**

"You know I did it all for you."

"Hm?" Fenris looked up from his peaceful contemplation of... bushes. Some kind of bush. He should probably know what they were, what their uses were, like any self-respecting elf should, but he didn't. They were green and flecked with tiny red berries. Probably poisonous. Why else would they still have berries on a busy highway like this one?

Hawke smiled. But then, Hawke always seemed to smile. Whether they were in battle or in bed, the man was incorrigible and as free with the expression as he was free with everything. Something Fenris and Fenris' jealousy had had to come to terms with long ago.

"I mean the whole Champion thing," Hawke explained. He gestured at himself, at the matched armour under the dust. "Not just you, mind. All of you. My friends. I think I just got strung along helping people, getting involved with those I care about, and suddenly I was the Champion of Kirkwall." He looked away, gazing thoughtfully along the pale brown highway toward the thin smoke of a nearby town. "Really, given a choice, I'd be Hawke the Baker. Or Hawke the Locksmith. At least then people might have better locks on their valuables." He chuckled.

Fenris watched him, bemused and entertained. "I don't think you have it in you to hold down a job," the warrior said. "You seek out trouble, my friend. It doesn't just find you."

Hawke rested his hands in a loose net behind his head and stretched, then slanted a smirk in Fenris' direction. "You don't think I could be a baker? Ah, you're probably right, at that. I never really understood _yeast_. What is it? Is it alive? Does that make bread an animal?"

"...I'm going back to Minrathous."

Laughing, Hawke lunged sideways and grabbed the slender figure of his companion. "Only if you take me with you! I'm lost without my companions."

"Then stop talking about bread. I'm hungry enough as it is." Fenris halfheartedly pushed Hawke away, furtively searching for any other eyes on the road. Ahead of them was a peasant family and a donkey cart and behind them, a good distance away, was an old woman hobbling along with a walking stick. He still wasn't too sure what to do when Hawke felt affectionate in public: submit? Hit him? Express affection in return?

"Fine, have it your way. I won't be a baker, then." Hawke released him, his hands lingering just long enough on Fenris' waist to start... something. That faint tension and pressure of desire deep under his stomach and at the base of his throat. He wondered if Hawke felt it to. Then he looked up at the rogue's eyes and saw that he needn't have wondered. Hawke's smile had turned into Hawke's smouldering stare. "Is there anything you want me to be?" he asked in a low, dark voice.

Fenris swallowed heavily, suddenly wishing he had a drink. "More discrete," he replied.

Hawke held that stare for a very long moment, long enough for Fenris to wonder if he would get a closer look at those bushes, and then smirked. "As you wish," he said formally, offering a little bow and turning away.

They walked for about three paces. Fenris, with a slight tinge of disappointment, thought the matter was over.

Then Hawke threw up his arms and spun around. "Never fear, Fenris," he said, startling elf and nearby birds with the boom of his voice. "No one will ever know how much I love you!"

"Oh, Maker," Fenris sighed into his palm. Not for the first time, he wondered why he was here, following along with the Champion of Kirkwall, the world's most irritating man. "I defended mages for you," he added sternly. "Do not mock me."

Unusual sobriety passed over Hawke's face, showing for the briefest instant what the man had seen and done. "I would never mock you, Fenris. I know what you did for me."

Of course, on hearing that, Fenris was guiltily reminded that, of the two of them, Hawke had done so much more. Not just for Fenris, but for everyone. He had a kind of selfless bravado and curiosity about him; like he strode through the world righting wrongs and being brave for _fun_. Looking at him, Fenris couldn't even see the Champion of Kirkwall; in truth, that man had never existed. There had only been Hawke, following a nose that was too well-suited to sniffing out conflict and danger.

There was nothing Fenris could say that would adequately express his feelings of gratitude and frustration at the human, for being so wonderful and so oblivious at the same time. So he didn't try. "See that you don't," he growled. "Or I'll never do it for you again."

Hawke, who seemed to eat, breathe and live sexual innuendo, grinned wolfishly an instant later.

After that, their walk to the next town slowed to a fraction of its former pace, and Fenris vowed to keep his mouth shut in the future.

The unnamed town's unnamed inn was medium-sized, good enough for anyone not important enough for the mayor to take note of. Fenris looked about at the taproom while Hawke made arrangements with the innkeeper. It bore a faint, nostalgia-inducing resemblance to the Hanged Man, what with the filth, the drunk people and the air of desperation mixed with camaraderie. Fenris half expected to find Varric in one of the back rooms. Or maybe a man selling poisons.

"Room and dinner for my friend and me," Hawke said, leaning over the bar and sliding a few silver pieces across. "And something in a bottle that won't make us blind."

"How about the dinner?" the woman asked blandly. "Can that make you blind?"

"I'd like to see it try." That ready smirk returned and Fenris forced his jealousy down.

"Here you are, ser," she said, passing over a generic iron key. "Third door on your right. The establishment appreciates your patronage."

"And your patron appreciates your establishmentage."

It was hard to tell if the white-faced innkeeper was flattered or annoyed. Fenris decided not to stick around to find out. He lay a clawed hand on Hawke's shoulder and tugged. "Come on. If we wait too long, dinner will probably try to crawl away." With the other, he reached for the key. He noticed the innkeeper's eyes follow the lyrium on his skin and he burned with the usual rush of self-consciousness, the desire to hide the markings that he never indulged.

On their way to their room, Hawke skillfully pick-locked every other door, startling one poor girl in the middle of her bath ("Water inspector," the rogue said to the frightened face and smooth shoulders. "Here to ensure your well-being." "Come _on_," Fenris growled, dragging the man away.), and discovering about four chests full of other people's belongings. Now that the Champion had a fair bit of coin at his disposal and the world's most efficient killing and looting abilities, he didn't actually take these things. He just liked to look at them and show them to Fenris, who most often stood in the doorway and pretended not to notice.

"How many moth-eaten scarves are there?" Hawke asked distastefully, brushing off his hands and rejoining his companion. "We should be knee-deep in caterpillars."

Their own room was plain, but clean...ish. Cleaner than sleeping on the side of the road, which they had had the pleasure of doing once or twice before in their explorations of the southern coast of the Waking Sea. The window was a nice touch; they had had to escape from places enough times in the past that it was worth trying the latch on the shutters and examining the drop to the courtyard on the other side. In the gathering purple gloom, the sun setting on the other side of the building, Fenris saw nothing more interesting than the cart and donkey belonging to the peasant family.

Hands slid around him from behind, ghosting over his waist and then up, into the narrow gap between breast-plate and tight clothing, as far as they would go. Fenris shivered at the ticklish sensation of someone touching that protected area.

"You're not too hungry, are you?" Hawke murmured close to one pointed ear, making Fenris twitch and goosebumps rise.

Fenris' stomach, empty as it was, was also the most generous of his organs, and willingly gave up precedence to other bits of his body. He closed and latched the shutter, then turned in Hawke's embrace. "Very hungry," he replied. "For Champion-meat."

Hawke blinked and stared. Then he burst into laughter.

"What?" Fenris scowled. That wasn't the appropriate response.

"I can't believe you just said that," the rogue said, still snickering. "I must be wearing off on you." He pitched his voice low to mimic Fenris' growl, "Champion-meat." When Fenris tried to pull away, angry and a little hurt, Hawke pulled him back, quickly sobering. "Sorry, it's just that that's usually something I would say. I like it, I promise. I was just, uh, surprised." That last he said against Fenris' neck, before kissing the dark skin.

Hawke made it very, very difficult to stay angry. In fact, Fenris was quite sure that Hawke had some ability that did the same thing in battle; he had seen experienced soldiers leave the rogue alone, under the impression that he wasn't a threat. Though Fenris knew this, he was willing to succumb and allow Hawke's lips to litter kisses under his ears and, soon enough, in the places where his armour had been.

Fenris had spent years looking at himself as a weapon or a tool, at best efficiently designed and at worst ugly. He was all thin muscle, sinew, bone, scars and that map of lyrium. Hawke, apparently, was blind to all of that. He treated Fenris like Fenris was made of... of something very good. Something that Fenris had yet to encounter. The rogue touched, kissed, nibbled and occasionally bit every part of the elf's body, his sharp gaze often on Fenris' face, watching every reaction.

Sometimes, Fenris couldn't handle it. He forced Hawke to look away, or turned off the lights, or just shut his own eyes. This evening, though, it was good. It was all right, comforting even. He wanted the other man, wanted him badly, wanted his eyes and his attention and his dark, dark voice.

After several minutes of Hawke's teasing ministrations, Fenris finally pushed the man over, using the strength of Danarius' folly to manhandle the Champion of Kirkwall. He straddled Hawke's hips, savouring the feel of the man's need so close to his own, separated by only the thin fabric of Hawke's undergarments. He took the opportunity to return the favour, exploring flesh that was his and his alone, no matter how easy Hawke was with his smiles and flirtation. How many people would kill to be in the position he was in, staring down at his own dark hands splayed on the Champion's broad chest, those eyes heavy-lidded and desirous?

"Thank the Maker I found you," he murmured, curling down to press his cheek against Hawke's, appreciative of the fact that the man had shaved off that terrible beard.

It was a youthful gesture, almost chidish, but Hawke didn't complain. The man crushed Fenris in a tight embrace and rolled them together, pressing himself against the length of Fenris' body. He said, in all seriousness, "Thank Him for me, too."

They eventually made it down for dinner and their bottle of non-blinding something. The taproom held significantly more people after full dark and Fenris was immediately on edge, keeping an eye out for anyone to make a move toward Hawke.

"You can relax, Fenris," Hawke chided as they waited for another white-skinned wench to bring their suppers. "No one knows us here." He had a sleepy, satisfied expression on his face, looking very much like a man who has everything he wants in the world.

_Because he has me_, Fenris' growing self-esteem suggested. The rest of Fenris' mind thought that this was very doubtful, but wasn't up for arguing when he was feeling so well-sated himself.

"Being unknown does not make one invulnerable," Fenris replied. He leaned back when the serving girl set a bowl of steaming something-or-other in front of him.

Suddenly, he was starving. It took effort not to lower his head and wolf down the chunks of potato, vegetable and meat as Hawke did. One bite at a time, he chewed and kept an eye behind him, always vigilant.

Hawke snickered. "Come on. No one is going to attack a man carrying an axe larger than himself."

"It's not larger than me."

"Well, just about." Hawke seemed unusually pleased with himself, even for him. He set his empty dish down and lifted a hand to signal the serving girl for another. While he waited, he propped his head on his fist and watched Fenris' slow, methodical progress. He smiled dreamily. "I could just sit and watch you for ages."

"Hawke," Fenris reprimanded quietly, embarrassed and worried about drawing attention. Since Hawke was apparently watching his back, among other parts of him, he took the opportunity to hurriedly finish his meal. The sooner he finished, the sooner they could leave.

The girl brought more food and more drink, the first to satisfy Hawke's large appetite and the latter for them both. From somewhere, the man produced a deck of battered cards, with which he plied Fenris until the elf relented to a game. About two hands in, Fenris started to feel good and slightly drowsy. He made some unlucky bets and verbally agreed to questionable acts with the rogue, in the hopes that Hawke would forget by morning.

Fenris' caution dwindled. He didn't notice when the taproom started to empty out, he didn't notice the growing quiet. He was focused entirely on a handful of cards that didn't really make sense. For some reason, the pictures and numbers were all jumbled. He felt like he was trying to learn to read again, that there was some meaning behind them that he just couldn't get.

Then there was a very clear footsteps, loud in the silence of the room.

Fenris jumped, dropped his cards and turned to look. The room turned with him, spinning, making him cringe and hold onto the table. His stomach squirmed and flipped and felt rather like a high dragon had just smacked him with her tail. Again.

"Hawke," he tried to say, his tongue and lips numb.

There was a clatter and a scrape of wood on wood behind him as Hawke tried to stand and failed.

Blurry figures approached from the bar, filing out from the back room. Fear, anger and battle lust mingled fruitlessly within Fenris; his body was incapable of responding. They had been drugged.

"Stop right there," Hawke slurred. "Don't you have the decency to... to not be blurry? Like a decent, unblurry person?"

_You tell them, Hawke_, Fenris thought. Surely, the human's quick metabolism and experience with poisons would let him act.

Hawke held out one of his wicked daggers and promptly dropped it under the table.

"Well, well... I'm glad we can rely on the Champion to let his guard down." That voice... It came from Hell. It came from the dark places, the evil places. That voice had died a year ago! "I believe we have you to thank for that, Fenris. You always were such a good boy."

"D-Danarius," Fenris stuttered. The figures approached close enough to resolve themselves into the unmistakable magister, flanked by mages and soldiers. "I... I killed you."

The magister laughed lightly. "Of course not. I'd never allow it. Now, come along, boy. You have a lot to atone for."

"Like Hell he will," Hawke growled. "You'll never—never touch him again."

"Admirable. Foolish, but admirable." Then, gently, "Kill him, Fenris."

The lyrium in Fenris' skin burned to life. Of their own volition, Fenris' arms and hands moved, gripping the massive axe on his back and bringing it forward. He struggled against the compulsion, harder than he'd ever fought anything, until his entire body was shaking and sweat dampened his hair and trickled down his neck, but slowly, inexorably, he readied himself to attack.

He turned to Hawke, the only man, the only person, for whom he had gladly fought, loved and lived. Hawke was pale, but also very still, staring up at the elf. He looked relaxed, that smile turning up the corner of his lips, hands flat on the table.

"Run," Fenris whimpered.

"I won't turn away from you," was Hawke's noble, stupid response. "I can't feel my legs."

"Now, Fenris. I don't have all night."

"I forgive you," the Champion of Kirkwall said.

_I don't_, Fenris thought, raising his axe.

"Master, wait!"

Fenris froze and the compulsion faded ever so slightly as Danarius was distracted. He could have cried. This was a nightmare, the worst of his nightmares, trapped in the act of killing Hawke at the behest of his true master.

Danarius' answer was cold enough to crack stone. "Yes?"

"Master, the Champion is worth a... a lot of money." It was one of the other mages. Fenris could only barely see her from the corner of his eye; likely another apprentice. Soon enough, she would be another footstep in his dreams, torturing him waking and sleeping. "Would, would my master not want the prestige, the power, of selling the Champion?"

"Hmm."

Again, the hold on Fenris weakened somewhat, enough for him to feel his own body again, to feel the lyrium burn. At least it seemed to have banished most of the drug. He stared down at Hawke, desperate, begging him to run while he had the chance.

Hawke, apparently, got the wrong message. "Go," he mouthed.

"Perhaps the Imperial Archon?"

"You make a good point, Claudia. However, you will not presume to know what I want." There was a choking noise and Fenris could twitch his fingers as Danarius' attention and power were both diverted. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-yes, master," she replied, voice strained.

The instant Fenris realized that he could flex the muscles in his legs, he obeyed Hawke's silent command and launched himself away, toward a window.

The soldiers and mages erupted in cries and Danarius' control tightened like a vise, but Fenris was already moving and forward momentum carried him through the thick, greasy panes of glass. He landed, lacerated and bleeding, on the dirt of the courtyard. For the moment, out of sight of Danarius, he had some semblance of control over his body. He took off, running like he hadn't had to run since... since Kirkwall, since Hawke and the knowledge that someone, somewhere, had his back. He ran and he hated himself for running and leaving the rogue in Danarius' clutches.

"Find him!" Danarius thundered behind him, voice of a god echoing over the small town. "I will not lose him again!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: **None. Well, maybe drama.

**Author's Note: **If you notice any errors in story or DA world details, feel free to let me know!

**Disclaimer: **A labour of love; something of an obsession. Not for profit.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Two**

Whether from the lyrium, the drug, the drink, fear or despair, Fenris couldn't remember most of his flight from that nameless town. Sometimes he thought he was dreaming, having a nightmare about running through dark scrub away from some nameless evil and never getting anywhere. But the evil had a name, it was Cowardice and Weakness and Betrayal. And he did get somewhere. He got to the bottom of a rocky gulley, where his ankle snapped and he passed out in a trickle of cold water.

/.\./.\

He woke up gasping, his hands around the neck of a mage.

Fortunately for this mage, Fenris was weak. Very weak. The other man, his fingers still hazy with the green aura of a healing spell, gently removed the elf's grasping hands and forced them down.

"Easy," he said, another voice from the past. "You can kill me when you tell me what happened to Hawke."

"Anders," Fenris sighed.

Had he gone back in time? Were they in Darktown now, recovering from some terrible battle with the Coterie or a coven of apostates? Danarius was dead again, or was Danarius still alive? Had Hawke helped Fenris kill the Magister already? Or was this even before? Had Fenris dreamt all those years with the Champion, the danger and the wanting and the confusion and the abject terror of destroying something wonderful?

He lay in a stupor for some time, slowly collecting himself. There was a ghost of an ache everywhere, but the severe pain of the broken ankle and the lacerations was gone. It was mostly his mind that suffered, already scarred from his past, chronically incapable of accurate interpretations of time and memory.

The mage, Anders, shuffled around him, wherever they were, tending a fire. At times, Fenris was convinced that they were back in the mage's clinic; he thought he heard voices. It took a while for him to realize that Anders was murmuring to himself. Or to Justice. Whoever.

When Fenris finally regained enough strength to open his eyes and sit up, he saw that they were in a small cave, sandy-floored and warm from the fire. Beyond the entrance was the thin, grey light of morning. He rubbed his head, groaning.

"Welcome back," Anders said quietly. He sat, cross-legged and hunched, on the other side of the fire. He cut a much different figure than the renegade of six months ago. His black robes had lost their feathers and now carried the ubiquitous layer of road dust. His face was shaded with stubble and his hair was lank and greasy and coming out of the short tail at the back. He looked thin and haunted—like an abomination ready to crack, in Fenris' opinion.

A very plain and crooked enchanter's stick leaned against the cave wall. It looked strangely familiar. So too did the cloak on which Fenris had lain, and the way Anders carried his head, weary and watchful.

"You've been following us," the elf realized. "I thought you were an old woman."

Anders snorted. "I get that a lot."

"For how long? Why?" Fenris' eyes narrowed suspiciously and he reached for his axe... which wasn't there. "My weapon?"

"I'm not going to attack you," the mage spat bitterly. "I couldn't drag you _and_ that damned thing. It's still out there."

Fenris glared, hoping to make it very clear that if it wasn't there, he would make a new one from the bones of the mage. "You went to Amaranthine. Why are you here?"

"I..." Anders stared at his hands, clenching and releasing in his lap. "The other mages... They fall into two categories, really. Some want to rebuild and some want to build anew. The first group, well, most of the Ferelden mages are in that group. King Alistair is supporting them. But they won't take me in, because of what I did in Kirkwall. The second group, all they want to do is carve a home for themselves. I think they take after the Tevinters, really." He laughed without humour and scratched his neck. "I fell in with one bunch. I thought, hey, this isn't so bad. And they seemed to want me there. Because of what I did. But then they needed food and supplies and they just attacked this town, slaughtering the people who wouldn't submit." He glanced up at Fenris' stony face, as though expecting the elf to object. "I want to say that I fought them and kept them from killing all those people, or at least die in the process, but I... I couldn't. I ran away. Justice is still mad at me for that one, hounding my dreams with their screams." He covered his face. "Oh, Maker..."

Fenris was unmoved by the pathetic abomination. This was little more than additional evidence for the duplicity and worthlessness of mages. No matter how guilty Anders was, no matter how tortured, he was only a heartbeat from turning into a monster.

_But then, so am I_, came the painful thought. He flinched, mentally, from the memory of nearly cleaving Hawke's defenseless head in twain.

After a few deep breaths, Anders went on. "I wanted... I don't know. I thought that, with Hawke, I could find a, a place." He shrank under Fenris' flinty glare and stumbled over his words. "N-not, not like that. No, just, a friend, someone to follow. Someone who would let me follow him. But I was afraid. I didn't want him to send me away. And I knew he would! He's mad about you. Absolutely mad. He wouldn't force you to put up with me. So I... I followed from a distance. I don't even know why." He shook his head. "I guess... I don't have anything better to do."

When Anders stopped talking, Fenris stared at him for a long time. He listened to the birds out in the morning light, the breath of the wind through the summer trees, the sounds of life moving on, completely unaware of the plight of these two stupid, stupid men.

"Danarius has him," he finally reported flatly.

"What?" Anders' head shot up, his eyes wide. "But you killed him!"

"Apparently not. He must have sent a doppleganger before." Fenris wasn't sure how much to admit to Anders, but he had always been honest, even with his own failings. "I... should have realized. Danarius had been too easy, even for the Champion and his companions. But I was eager to believe that we had killed him. Now... I suppose he bided his time. Waited for the dust to clear and then hunted me—us—down." He made a fist and watched the lyrium on his forearm ripple with the movement of his muscles. "As it turns out, I'm not entirely a free man. If Danarius' apprentice hadn't spoken up, I would have been the one to kill Hawke."

"Maker help us," Anders moaned. "We have to save him. Where would Danarius take him?"

"You sound like Hawke," Fenris observed. "So eager to run off and help without even knowing what you're up against. I was a fool to think that I could face Danarius. It will be impossible to just... waltz into the Imperium and snatch the Champion of Kirkwall from his captor."

"Waltz?" Anders repeated. "I didn't know you were a dancer."

"I'm not." Fenris' glare sharpened. "I'm not joking, abomination. The Maker only knows if he's still alive."

"He is," the mage immediately said. "I would know if he was dead." He stared at Fenris with sullen contempt, his expression saying quite clearly that the elf did not, nor had ever, deserved the relationship he had with Hawke.

At that moment, Fenris agreed. Not that he would admit it to the mage.

"He wouldn't give up on us," Anders continued. "You should have seen the expression on his face when the Templars captured you. He would never, never abandon you."

That hurt. That hurt worse than the lyrium, the glass, the ankle and years of fighting. It hurt because it was true.

Fenris clutched his aching skull and snarled, "Do you think I don't know that? But how can I help him when I'm as dangerous as the man who holds him?"

Anders looked up at him with subtle smugness. "I ask myself the same question every day."

Slowly, Fenris' breathing calmed. He wanted to just curl up and give in to the inevitable, but he couldn't, not when Anders still wore that slight sneer. "What I heard, before I fled, was that they were going to take Hawke to the Archon. In Minrathous."

The mage nodded. "Danarius came a long way to get you. These are Ferelden lands. If we went to King Alistair, he might give us aid."

"And how long would that take? Weeks? A month? Long enough for Hawke to be-" Killed, enslaved, turned into a monster of battle? Any number of terrible fates awaited him.

"We're not far from Highever. The mages there may be able to send a message to Denerim. And we can get passage to Kirkwall-or would he go directly to Cumberland?-and make our way from there. If we're lucky, we can intercept Danarius before he gets back into the Imperium."

Fenris didn't like it. But he didn't have much choice. His friends—Hawke's friends, he corrected—were scattered and time was short. "Fine," he said. "I doubt he'll be willing to take Hawke to Kirkwall, where he has allies. He'll go to Cumberland and take the Imperial Highway." He was sure of it. The Magister was too efficient not to.

Anders, for all that he was facing this new challenge, looked better. There was colour in his cheeks and life in his eyes. But then, he wasn't contemplating hunting down and facing the beast of his nightmares.

"Do you think they'll still be in town?" the mage wondered. "How do Magisters travel, usually?"

"On the backs of their slaves," Fenris responded. "I imagine, with Hawke in his custody, Danarius won't rest until they're on a ship to Cumberland."

"Then perhaps we'll catch him in Highever. We're only a day behind."

"A day?" Fenris asked sharply.

The mage nodded. "You were out for a solid day and a night. I healed your ankle and cuts, but whatever they got in your system held you tightly."

The elf glared suspiciously.

"I didn't do anything to you," Anders protested, holding his hands out, palms showing. "I wouldn't. Not if I ever want to see Hawke again. Besides, you were thrashing so much I would've just been asking for a broken jaw."

"You're always asking for a broken jaw."

Hawke's smirk must have some basis in being Ferelden, because Anders had hints of it, too. Both men seemed to think that Fenris' threats were funny, anyway.

"Stop wasting time," the elf snapped. He got to his feet with the aid of the rough cave wall, his legs embarrassingly shaky.

"Take it easy, elf."

"No." With careful steps, he picked his way to the cave entrance.

"Just wait, you stubborn thing." Even as Anders said it, Fenris detected the faint glow on the ground in front of him and froze, clutching a moss-covered rock at the entrance. "They were hunting for you all that first night. I used a misdirection hex." Anders, kneeling by what was left of the fire, held out his hand and called the magic back.

Fenris shivered. He didn't even have to be the target and the magic still crawled like spider legs up and down his spine.

While Anders packed his meager belongings, Fenris got the blood moving in his thin, weakened limbs. After some unsteady walking, he found the gulley in which he'd fallen, but the axe was gone. For a time, he stared down at the broken foliage, gouges in the mud, and spots of blood. Danarius' people had probably claimed it. The bastards.

"You owe me an axe," he told the mage when he returned.

Anders, shifting his pack comfortably on his shoulders, gazed at Fenris with some amusement. "You owe me your life, elf. Though I'll waiver the debt if you help me rescue your _supposed_ beloved."

Fenris' hands clenched in useless rage. He snarled, turned on his bare heel and stalked away. Why was it Anders who had to be here? Why the abomination? And why was he more eager to go after Hawke than Fenris himself?

_He just doesn't know_, Fenris soothed himself. _He doesn't know what he's up against.  
_

/.\./.\

They stopped briefly in the small, nameless town, to eat and gather supplies. Fenris was not about to wander about Ferelden, Nevarra and the Tevinter Imperium without a weapon and Anders was suddenly obsessed with the idea of a haircut, a shave and new clothes. Apparently, a rescue mission was the cure for whatever ailed him. Bastard abomination.

Unfortunately, limited funds meant limited selections.

"I hate mauls," Fenris sighed as he adjusted the strap holding it to his back. "They're so... crude."

"I'd think that would be perfect for you, elf. Me Fenris, me smash. A hurr hurr hurr." Anders sat on the edge of the town's central fountain, shaving his cheeks in his murky reflection. Fenris scowled and hoped that the mage would cut his own throat open. However, after a few careful drags across the lather, he sat back with a satisfied huff. Then he glanced at the elf. "Actually, it kind of makes you look like you're hunting moles, waiting for them to pop out of their holes."

"It must be the Ferelden thing." Fenris pursed his lips. "You all have a terrible sense of humour."

"At least we have a sense of humour." Anders packed his kit, straightened his hair, and stood. He looked more like his old self, in a mostly clean robe with the end of a better, straighter staff jutting above his shoulder. He hadn't found anything to replace his little feathered coat, thank the Maker, or else Fenris would reassess his decision to travel with the man. Again.

Before they departed, Fenris went to the inn and questioned the keeper. As he expected, she didn't remember anything, either of Fenris and Hawke or of Danarius. Anders unnecessarily offered his opinion that her mind had been wiped.

By mid-morning, they were on the highway, headed for Highever. They had all of five silver pieces and a lot of animosity between them, but Anders' optimism was apparently as infectious as the Blight because, despite himself, Fenris felt the first stir of hope. Perhaps, if he went up against Danarius without the drug in his system, he could resist the Magister. With surprise on their side, maybe they could succeed.

"Hey, look!" Anders pointed at one of the farms edging the highway. "A cat!"

Of course, the most likely outcome was that they would kill each other long before reaching Danarius.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings: **None.

**Disclaimer:** I write for the love of it. These characters aren't mine, as much as I rode them hard and put them away wet.

**Author's Note:** Not much to say for this chapter, except that Anders isn't this whiny in later chapters. It's strange to look back and realize that the characters are growing and developing. As always, if you notice any errors, I would love to know it.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Three**

"He knows we're coming."

"Eh?" _Anders, get your mind out of the gutter._ The mage blinked at his companion. "I'm not coming. Are you? Is this really the right place?"

Fenris' glare would set wet wood on fire.

_Oh, Maker, don't think about wet wood._

Anders saw death in the elf's expression.

_Does the lyrium let him read minds? It doesn't, does it? Andraste's tits, I'm in trouble, aren't I?_

"Danarius," Fenris continued in that hard, hard voice that meant that he was ignoring whatever had just vomited itself from Anders' big mouth. "Danarius knows that we're _following him_. Or at least that I'm following him." His glare failed and he looked down at the mug of ale between his long-fingered hands. "He probably expects it. Capture the Champion and he's captured me, too."

Anders' initial inclination was to stand up and scream. His mind howled, _How dare you? You don't deserve to pine, you violent, brutal, two-faced, deranged, murdering psychopath!_ _You never deserved him!_ But, through years of careful control, Anders was able to keep his reaction to a minimum. "Well, we wouldn't want to disappoint him," he said.

"It's the only reason anyone remembers him. He wants to leave a trail."

"And a trail means traps," Anders added.

The elf nodded silently.

This was the point when Hawke would say something encouraging, funny, bolstering, insulting, or all of the above; something that would inspire them, anyway. Anders couldn't think of anything. He was worried, more worried than he would let on to the elf. From what he'd seen, men like the Champion were few and far between and needed to be protected. He needed to be saved. And then kept away from the psychopath elves that allowed him to be stolen in the first place. If Anders was lucky, Danarius would trade Hawke for Fenris.

Though Anders was rarely lucky. He was born unlucky and the rest of his life seemed to be following suit quite nicely.

_Maybe it will be different this time? I'll be doing the right thing, won't I? Fenris said himself that Danarius was still his master. Hawke will never be safe with him._

_And he'll be ever so safe with you, won't he, Anders?_

The mage rubbed his forehead, trying to get the internal argument to give it a rest for a while.

"Well, we don't have to worry about traps until we get a ship," Fenris went on. "Not so easy without any money."

"Neither of us are quite so... free with other people's belongings as Hawke is," Anders agreed.

"Was," Fenris corrected. "He doesn't steal anymore."

That stung, but Anders shrugged it off. "Do you remember when he stole from that Hightown tailor, and then sold everything back? Jean held up one robe and said, 'Ah! Ze seams are so uneven! Such shoddy work! Fifty silver and no more!'" He chuckled and then stopped. "Oh right, you weren't there, elf. I guess you always kept him on his best behaviour."

They stared hostilely at each other.

"Anyway," Anders continued glibly. "I have that meeting with the other mages soon. They'll probably help us."

"Hn."

"I suppose you won't want their lyrium-tainted money, though. Maybe we should go out and kill a bunch of people and loot their corpses. Eh? What do you think? That's what you're good at, isn't it?"

The clay mug in Fenris' hands shattered, splashing ale everywhere. The elf didn't react; he just stared down at the mess and let it dribble onto his lap.

Anders swallowed and wondered if he'd gone too far. He balked at apologizing, though, not to the elf. The murderous beast who'd stolen Hawke before the mage even got the chance. For a long moment, he stared at the top of that white head and the handle of the huge maul and the narrow shoulders rising and falling as the elf breathed.

_Aren't you going to threaten me? Don't you hate me?_ Something very ugly rose in Ander's chest. When Fenris refused to react, the mage finally stood and stormed out of the small tavern.

Jealousy was a terrible thing, but it wasn't going to go away just because Anders wanted it to. He had spent too long watching Hawke waste his life with the Tevinter fugitive, coveting what the elf had. Not just the man himself, work of the Maker's hand that he was, but the safety and comfort, the knowledge that there was someone to stand with and behind you, no matter the circumstance.

_He stood with you, Anders. He always did, but you betrayed his trust._

_I had to._

_You're selfish and greedy. You always wanted more._

_Wouldn't you?_

The mage walked the streets of Highever, barely seeing it. It was a city like any other, full of winding streets, little shops, and a lot of noisy people going about their afternoon business. He paused only once, to scratch the ears of a thin, ragged street cat, before moving on.

The mages were in the best district of town, in a large, fortified mansion. King Alistair had made an agreement with the circle mages, allowing them their freedom so long as they could contain their own members and, when asked, help to hunt down the mages that went renegade and started to kill. When Anders had approached them before, they had very quickly sent him away. Fear, anger and gratitude had mingled in their eyes. Now, perhaps they would aid him if it was to save the Champion of Kirkwall, a Ferelden and a powerful man who would be dangerous in Tevinter hands.

_Like Fenris' hands_, added a part of Anders' mind in a helpful manner.

The mansion was guarded by former Templars, whose allegiance was now with the King. They allowed his entry and sent a page for the Head Enchanter. He waited in a sitting room at the front of the building, with a window overlooking a small garden. It was calm, peaceful even, and gave him some relief to think that the mages had this because of his actions, as brutal as they were.

He heard the approach of the Head Enchanter and was ready with a polite bow when the man entered. "Head Enchanter," he greeted formally.

"Anders," the man replied. "Please sit."

The Highever Head Enchanter was a strangely large and bearded man, built more like a Templar than a mage. The chair he sat in groaned from his weight. He used his staff to assist in lowering his great girth, indicating the advanced age that his dark hair and beard did not reveal.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" The man's expression was guarded. He obviously didn't want Anders here.

"I'm afraid it's not a social call, though I'm curious to know how the mages here are getting on."

"Very well, thank you. King Alistair is generous in paying for our services to the crown."

_Paying to kill blood mages_, Anders filled in silently. "I'm glad," he said. "This is... this is what I hoped for."

The enchanter stared expectantly.

"I, uh, well, we need your aid. And possibly King Alistair's, if we can get a message to him."

"Oh?"

"Do you recall Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall?"

A faint smile graced the man's broad and expressive face. "If he is anything like the legends say, then he is an amazing man."

Anders melted a bit. "He is far, far more than any legend," he breathed. "Varric never did do him justice. He never ripped off an ogre's arms... He told the ogre to lay down its arms and it tore them off itself."

The enchanter chuckled. "Well, at least we know he can capture the admiration of Thedas' most infamous renegade mage. What of him, then?"

"He's been captured."

"Captured?" The bushy, black brows jumped.

"By a Tevinter Magister. My, uh, companion and I are following him. But we are only two men, and, well..." Anders scratched the back of his head, more than a bit embarrassed. "Passage to Cumberland costs more than charming smiles and reputation alone."

"Ah. I see." The enchanter smoothed his beard. "You are asking for money." He wasn't especially cold, but hearing it put so frankly made Anders flinch.

"Any assistance, really. Especially a message to the king. Hawke isn't just a legend, he's a political figure in both the Free Marches and Ferelden. The Tevinters could use him for political leverage."

"Possibly, though the Imperium is at peace with Ferelden at the moment. Sending an army after the Champion may not be prudent."

Anders shook his head, frustrated. "That's besides the point. We don't need an army. Just a small group would do. But first we need to get there!"

The enchanter held up a placating hand. "Alas, I have no charity to offer." Before Anders could object, he went on. "However, there is a job that you could do for us, and King Alistair's money will go to you."

"We don't have time for that!"

At Anders' outburst, a helmeted head leaned in through the open door. "Is everything all right, Head Enchanter?"

With a shock like a bucket of cold water, Anders realized that the mages didn't trust him, that they felt they needed protection from him.

"We're fine, thank-you, Ser Oswald." The Head Enchanter was implacable as rock. "I'm sorry, Anders, but we really do not have the funds for your venture. However, the job is available and we will send a message to Denerim on your behalf. That's all I can offer."

Anders felt time slipping away from him, but all he could do was bow his head. "Thank-you, Head Enchanter. What is this job you speak of?"

The man smiled. "Actually, I'm relieved to have your aid. Right now, our experienced mages are away at Lake Calenhad and I cannot send our youths to perform this task. We got word that a coven of blood mages has been attacking caravans to the south east. Perhaps a day's journey. They're led by a woman, Hope."

"Oh, Maker," Ander groaned. "I know of them."

"The reward will more than pay for your passage."

Ander drew in a deep breath and let it out. He did not relish the thought of facing them, the mages he had freed and inflicted on the land. Hope, especially, had been cold and brutal. Though not until later. When Anders was with her, he had thought she would help him, herself, and her people. At least this time he wouldn't be alone. Fenris would probably be more than happy to kill a coven of mages, anyway. Perhaps it would improve his mood.

"Where are you staying? We'll send King Alistair's messenger to you."

"The sooner, the better." Anders provided the name of the tiny tavern in which he and Fenris has taken their rest. "Thank you, Head Enchanter. I appreciate your generosity."

"I wish we could offer more." It was hard to tell if the mage was telling the truth or not, and Anders didn't really want to know.

As he left, Anders felt the eyes of the other mages and the former templars on him. Probably waiting for him to go crazy and kill the lot of them.

Fenris wasn't at their table when Anders returned. For a moment, Anders debated the benefits of just leaving the elf to his own devices, but he had to tell him about the recent developments, make sure that the elf was up to fighting. It would also help distract Anders from memories of Hope and her crew, the good times they had had together before they decided that they were better than other people.

_That's the real problem_, Anders pondered. _No matter who you are—elf, human, dwarf, qunari, mage—you aren't better than other people. We're all equal._ He made a mental note to add that to his manifesto.

After some questioning, Anders discovered that Fenris had gotten directions to, of all things, a library. He briefly dithered, not wanting to miss Alistair's messenger, but finally opted to fetch Fenris back. According to the barkeeper, the library wasn't far.

The place had seen better days, most of the masonry was stained and crumbling, but it had a kind of solemn dignity. In the late afternoon, with shadows creeping up from the streets, it reminded Anders of an old woman gathering her robes about her before settling in for the night. The outer galleries, lit and airy with tall windows, held long tables where library patrons could read. The inner room held a modest collection of books; tiny compared to any Circle, but a wealth of knowledge for the average commoner.

Anders found Fenris in a gloomy corner, where only an elf's eyes could successfully pick out a book's lettering, his back against the wall and his long legs stretched across two chairs. He pulled up a chair opposite to his broody companion and read the book's battered cover.

"You actually like those children's stories?" he demanded incredulously.

"Shh," Fenris said quietly without looking up. "Quiet in the library, abomination."

Anders smothered his grin and allowed the elf another quiet moment. He watched the yellow eyes move carefully over the page and the pale lips moving to form the words. _He has to read out loud to himself_, the mage gloated internally.

Finally, the elf closed the book and regarded the other man. "How else do we learn about a people than by learning the stories told their children?"

Anders was shocked and forgot to hide it. Did Fenris just say something _intelligent_? "Well," he managed, "I suppose if you want to learn about the Ferelden preoccupation with foxes."

"Or the Ferelden honour system." Fenris shrugged. "What of our passage?"

"Er, yeah, about that." Anders carefully inspected the gloomy rafters above their heads. "We, uh, we have to do a job for the Highever Circle."

"I see." Somehow, Fenris managed to give two syllables the same force as his maul.

"Actually, it's a job for King Alistair. That is, he's going to pay for it. We're going to get paid, enough to get passage to Cumberland." He was babbling now, perhaps thinking too hard about the fate of that clay mug. "It should take a day, no more than two, and then we'll be on a ship. The Head Enchanter will also send word to the king, in case we can get some more aid."

"I see."

Anders made a face. "Can't you say more than that?"

"I can." Fenris got to his feet. "I can't say that I'm happy to run errands for the mages while Hawke is on his way to Tevinter, though."

"If it helps, they need us to clear out blood mages." Anders scrambled to follow suit, not wanting to look up at the elf.

"That doesn't help."

"We need to get back to the tavern. The king's messenger will meet us there."

"Very well."

Conflicting emotions churned in Anders' chest as he watched Fenris carefully slot the worn little book in with its brethren, his gauntleted hand gentle. He had never thought to see the elf behave that reverently toward anything, much less a children's novel.

_That doesn't make him less dangerous_, Justice reminded him.

Anders grudgingly agreed, and quelled the stir of... guilt? Respect? Confusion?

They returned to the tavern in time for the evening meal. Anders noticed how Fenris kept his head crooked at an angle, like a rabbit always watching the sky for a circling hawk. It amused the mage to think that the wolf was more like a frightened herbivore, until he sobered at the thought of what a man like Fenris would fear.

They ate and waited, not speaking, lost in their own thoughts. Soon enough, the lamps were lit as darkness fell outside. Anders thought longingly of a rented room, somewhere with a soft bed far from Tevinter fugitives, but knew they didn't have the money for it. At best, they would find a room to share with no bed, but with a lock on the door to keep them somewhat safe.

Then the tavern door slammed open and in strode the king's messenger.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings:** Blood, gore and drama. Attempted fight scene using DA game-play. Spoilery.

**Introducing the Rogue!Male!Warden:**

- Alienage elf background

- Romanced Zevran

- Made a Darkspawn taint baby with Morrigan (though I still have no idea what happened after that)

- Dual-weapon and bow specialties.

- Penchants for robbery and cheeky dialogue options

**Disclaimer:** Written for the love of it. No really, this fic ate my brain. Curse you, Fenris and your puppy eyes!

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Four**

Fenris wasn't overly fond dogs, not when he had enjoyed being the quarry of hounds so often in the past, but Anders seemed to take after his beloved cats more than was strictly healthy. When a mabari's large, blunt nose pushed open the tavern door, Anders jumped and eased himself further down the bench. Fenris hid his enjoyment at the mage's expense and allowed his cool gaze to rest on the dog, waiting.

Following the mabari was an elf with smooth red hair and a mildly interested expression. He glanced about and his eyes, as golden as his dog's, lit on the two travelers. Apparently, they were easy to spot; this did not bode well for their future journey.

"Anders?" said the new man, approaching their table. The dog stuck to his knee, its heavy head swinging around, constantly searching.

"Oi!" The barkeeper shouted and waved an angry arm, but, Fenris noticed, remained safely behind his bar. "Don't bring that mutt in here!"

The stranger looked down at his mabari. "What'll you have, Dog?" The mabari whined. The elf looked back up and waved two fingers at the barkeep. "I'll take the house wine," he called. "The Dog wants ale. Dark. In a bowl. Something with bite."

"Another Ferelden," Fenris muttered darkly, easily recognizing that terrible, terrible sense of comedy that afflicted the nation.

"Another elf," Anders responded.

The barkeep must have decided that the new elf, armed as he was with a sword and dagger, and his rather large canine, were worth serving, after all. As the man settled at their table, a timid girl brought the two drinks. When she held the bowl and stared at the placid dog, fear obvious in her expression, the red-haired elf scratched behind the mabari's ears.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "He bites darkspawn, but he only licks little girls."

"In that order?" Anders asked, horrified. "Ugh!"

The girl didn't seem to mind. She set the bowl down and submitted to the mabari's slobbery gratitude with giggles.

The strange elf smiled indulgently, then turned his attention to the two travelers. "Well met. That's Dog and I'm, uh, well, people call me the Warden."

"_The_ Warden?" Anders repeated. His eyes narrowed. "I thought I recognized that taint about you. But what do you mean _the_ Warden? There is only one _the_ Warden, and he wouldn't be in some dingy place like this with a big, stinking dog."

The mabari growled softly and the Warden patted him with an absent hand. "You do roll in an awful lot of dead things," the elf murmured to the beast, at which Dog whined. Then he smiled at Anders. "_The_ Warden jumped at the chance to get out of Denerim. Alistair's idea of revenge is keeping me at his side. If I had to hear anything else about an Orlesian treaty, I was going to feign my Calling and live in an abandoned thaig."

"He wants revenge on you? Aren't you the Hero of Ferelden?"

"To Alistair, I'm 'that Maker-damned knife-ear who forced me onto the throne.' Amongst other things."

"You forced him onto the throne?"

The Warden nodded and drank. "Poor bastard. I mean, I love the guy. More of a brother than a friend, ever since the beginning. But better him than me. The Arl of Redcliffe and I forced him onto it, wedged the crown on his stylish hair and everything. Never forgave me." He frowned, almost a pout. "Most times I'm stuck in Denerim and darkspawn don't even have the decency to act out anymore. But sometimes something will come up and, if he doesn't notice, I'll take it on. Gives me a chance to stretch my legs."

"So you're hunting blood mages to 'stretch your legs'. Why do you need help?"

"Help?" The Warden chuckled. "Mostly it's the company. And politics. Alistair can't support the Circles too obviously, so he doles out jobs instead. Trying to convince the populace that they aren't all possessed." Noticing Anders' hard expression, the elf shrugged. "Sorry, that's not very kind, is it? I could actually use the help. Especially with magic and carrying loot." He leaned back and looked the mage up and down. "Your back looks pretty strong. How's your friend?" He nodded at Fenris.

"He's not my friend," Anders snapped waspishly.

Fenris met the Warden's stare with an unflinching, unwavering regard.

The Warden nodded slightly. "You'd make a fine reaver. You can be my friend, despite Anders' opinions. Do you have a name, though, so I know what to call when someone needs their head smashed in?"

"Fenris."

"A pleasure." The Warden tossed back the last of his wine. "Now, unless you men have anything better to do, I suggest we go hunting."

"In the dark?" Anders protested.

"Two elves and a former Warden? Oh, yes, I noticed it all over you, too. We'll be just fine. From the reports, this coven is most active at night. I don't want another caravan to go missing." The mabari whined. "Oh, my apologies, Dog. Two elves, a former Warden, and the fiercest mabari ever to stalk Thedas." Dog yipped.

The Warden and his canine led them out. Fenris followed on silent feet, feeling strange to be flanking someone who wasn't Hawke, but who wore the dual weapons and the same cloak of deadly confidence. Anders kept his distance, muttering swears at dogs and arrogant elves.

"We can all hear you, human," the Warden called over his shoulder.

/.\/.\

They followed the highway west from Highever, with the half moon glowing yellow behind them and lighting the way. Fenris, unaccustomed to night travel, looked about with interest at what the darkness did to the surrounding countryside. Mostly, it looked like bushes. Dark bushes with twittering animals rustling about on their own business and the sweet scent of moist earth and plant life. Occasionally, he caught a high-pitched shriek from something getting eaten. Probably rodents. And, judging by the smug expression born by the mabari whenever he emerged from the brush, probably eaten by Dog.

After some time, Anders seemed to get over his irritation and tried to start a conversation. Both elves had their ears stretched for sounds of blood magic, so the conversation mostly went like this:

"Did you really kill the Archdemon?"

"Yes."

"Shouldn't that have killed you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But the taint-"

"I don't want to talk about it, Anders."

"Did something happen?"

"Shut up, Anders."

After a sullen silence: "Did you really find Andraste's ashes?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"They were ashes, they had Andraste's name and guardian and they healed the Arl, but I don't know for certain. I didn't put them in there."

"You traveled with an apostate mage, right?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"She, and I don't want to talk about it."

"But what about-"

"Anders," Fenris murmured quietly. "I can't hear the blood magic over your prattle." For his ear caught a faint sound on the wind, like voices.

Anders had the presence of mind to shut up. They all paused and listened.

"May just be a caravan," the Warden said in a carrying whisper. "But perhaps not. Ready yourselves."

Fenris concentrated and summoned the strength of the lyrium under his skin. A moment later, he felt a second wash of power from an outside source. He glared at the mage. "I don't need your aura."

"You say that now," Anders snapped back.

"Thank you, Anders," the Warden said gracefully before they could start arguing. "I prefer close fights." He nodded toward Fenris. "I hope you don't mind a duellist on the front lines with you."

Fenris felt a pang, fear for Hawke mixed with the vast sensation of _need_ for the man, and nodded tightly. "I'm used to it."

"You never could get Hawke to stay out of your way," Anders commented. "I can't even count the times I thought you were going to brain him when he pounced out of nowhere."

"Tell me about it." Fenris shook his head. "That man was asking for it."

"Who?"

"No one," Fenris quickly answered, not wanting to talk about the missing Champion.

"Of course you'd say that," Anders hissed.

"Shut up," Fenris snarled. If Anders kept implying that Fenris didn't care about the man, one day it might come true.

"Easy," the Warden interrupted. "We're on a hunt, remember?"

The two lapsed into uneasy silence.

The voices gradually became louder as they walked on, detaching from the general din of night noise, and were accompanied by smoke and light. The trio, the mabari still off in the brush, rounded a corner and found a camped caravan; two covered wagons, a small fire, and a lone watchman.

"Hold! Who g-goes there?" The tremulous call came from the caravan guard, a young human male in ragged armour.

"Grey Wardens," the Warden answered, coming into the light and holding his arms out at his sides. "We mean no harm. We're hunting blood mages tonight."

The lad, he couldn't have been more than fifteen, sagged. "Thank the M-maker," he stuttered. "I'm g-glad you're here, m-mesere. The others are with the horses, and it's a d-damn spooky night to b-be alone."

Fenris didn't think so, but he didn't know what it was like to have poor human senses. He'd seen Hawke walk into bedroom furniture often enough to know that it was a severe handicap, though.

"Be easy, lad," the Warden said. "Have you seen or heard anything?"

The trio joined the boy in the small circle of fire light, settling on the bits of log and stone used as seating. Elsewhere, Fenris detected snoring. He wondered where the voices had come from, if the boy was alone but for sleeping comrades.

"Only what was left of other c-caravans, m-mesere."

While the Warden conversed with the lad, Anders leaned uncomfortably close to Fenris. "How common is that stutter, do you think?" he asked in a low voice.

Fenris grimaced, uneasy with the touch of Anders' breath on his ear. "How would I know?"

"I've only come across it the once," Anders replied, mostly to himself, as he shuffled back on his own log. The blond's face looked stark and ghastly in the flickering light.

A thin call, that of an old person, came from one of the wagons. "Excuse m-me," the young guard begged and went to answer.

Fenris listened carefully and saw an expression of concentration on the Warden's face as he did the same. However, he didn't catch much of the interaction within the wagon, other than that the lad was explaining his and the others' presence.

"Where do I remember that stutter?" Anders threw a pebble into the fire, causing an eruption of sparks. "Andraste's well-turned calf, that's annoying."

"You're annoying," Fenris informed the mage.

"M-my g-grandmother wants t-to m-meet you." The lad returned and stood awkwardly, just within the circle of light. His stammer seemed to be getting worse and he looked nervous. More nervous than anyone should be of their grandmother.

"We don't want to wake anyone," the Warden said mildly. "We'll be on our way soon enough."

"Nonsense," came the harsh word of a crone. A hunched figure crawled out from one of the wagons, well bundled in a cloak, only wisps of white hair showing. "Even on the road, one must be a good host. Everett, build up the fire, lad."

"Are you sure, g-grandmother?" the boy asked. "Three G-Grey Wardens-"

"How could we not? Build the fire!"

Fenris didn't have much experience with family, beyond a sister who sold him out to Danarius, but he was quite sure that grandmothers didn't normally snap at their descendants in such a way. Everett, though, hurried to obey, and started to pile wood on the fire.

"You aren't worried about attracting attention?" asked the Warden.

"Oh, no, not when you're here," she replied. She hobbled over to the Warden's side and sat with the aid of a crooked walking stick. She patted the Warden's arm with a withered hand, dark and sick on the fingers.

"Your hand," Anders immediately noticed. "You have an illness, madam? I may be able to help."

"Soon, dear," croaked the woman. "You can help me soon."

This was an odd response, though there really was no accounting for the elderly.

After some minutes, the fire had become a raging inferno. Anders, the smug bastard, very quietly cast an arcane shield on himself, protecting him from the worst of the heat. On Fenris' already sensitive skin and eyes, it was terrible. He eventually backed away and leaned against a wagon wheel. Only the crone and the Warden seemed at all comfortable.

"M-mesere," Everett stammered when he noticed where Fenris had moved. "G-get away from the wagon. The other sleepers-"

"Oh, don't worry, dear," the crone called. "They're already awake."

That was all the warning they received.

Fenris saw the crone pull a glinting blade and shove it into the Warden's side before the man could react.

Then something big-something fleshy and putrid-exploded out of the wagon and landed on the Tevinter fugitive. Fenris, bolstered by the lyrium, shrugged off most of the weight. Then, with the power so ready and willing, he spirit pulsed whatever was trying to overwhelm him.

In the small space that gave him, Fenris took a moment to assess the sudden battlefield. Anders stood by the fire, whirling his staff and shooting spirit energy at the crone and the dark-robed figures rushing out of the woods. The Warden was staggering to his feet, holding his side, still glowing with Anders' green healing. He swigged a healing potion, unsheathed his weapons, and whirled into battle.

The foe who had landed so ignobly on Fenris was more like ten people all bound together. The elf bared his teeth at it; it was only half the size of the monster First Enchanter Orsino had become in Kirkwall, but it was just as disgusting and just as good a reason to be rid of mages altogether. It roared at him, showering the slender warrior with blood and spittle. Fenris brought his maul up and roared back.

At some point, there was a dread howl that gave their opponents pause. Then the mabari appeared from out of the darkness and overwhelmed one of the more powerful blood mages, tearing the man's throat out.

In the chaos and frenzy, Fenris forgot about his companions. At least until the recombinant he fought got in a lucky hit that sent him flying across the clearing and slamming into the fire. He screamed and rolled away from it, writhing in pain and anger.

"Don't need the aura, he says." Anders stood over him, his eyes glowing with Justice, but his aspect that of the healer. He bent and held out a hand, already alight. "Just today, two for one deal, I might even throw in a barrier to keep you on your feet."

Fenris was in no shape to argue. He took the mage's hand, felt the cool relief of magic, hated himself for wanting it, and took off, back into the fray.

"A little thanks would be nice!" Anders called after him.

After that, the monstrous thing from the wagon didn't take long to kill, especially when the Warden, having dispatched the last dark-robed mage, joined Fenris. Like Hawke, he dashed around like a mad man, stabbing here, stabbing there, pointing out where Fenris' blows would be most effective. The maddened recombinant, now spouting blood and disease, random and unnameable body parts falling to the grass, took a few more desperate swings before succumbing to their concerted efforts. It collapsed to what may have been its knees, groaned, and fell.

Fenris wiped blood and gore off of his forehead and shared a triumphant grin with the Warden, before he remembered that this wasn't Hawke. He quickly lost the grin and turned away.

Anders stood by the scattered fire, his staff held before him. Several metres away stood the crone, her withered hand at her throat, her face hidden in shadow.

"You were beautiful once," Anders said loudly. "Why won't you show your face, Hope?"

The Warden came to Fenris' side and glanced at the warrior. "Hope?" he mouthed. Fenris shrugged.

"Time changes all things, Anders," she said. "Though you look well, very well. Will you have pity on an old woman?"

"You aren't old," the mage replied.

"No? How about you look at my hand?" She threw it.

Anders gave a little shriek as the thing landed on him and swarmed, spider-like, toward his face and closed on his throat. He clutched it and stumbled backwards and promptly tripped over a log and onto a burning piece of wood.

"Dog!" the Warden shouted and ran toward the crone, his weapons out and ready. The mabari bounded at her, snarling.

This left Anders to Fenris.

_Oh, Maker, help me_, the elf sighed internally. How any self-respecting man could lose a fight to a single hand was beyond him, but Anders was doing a fine job of it, squirming about and turning blue. His watering eyes stared with abject terror up at Fenris.

The elf knelt and pried the bony fingers away from the mage's throat. It took more effort than he had expected, but the lyrium supplied the strength he needed to finally, one by one, snap the fingers off.

Even broken, the hand proved a savvy enemy, as it jumped off of Anders and scurried toward the bush.

"Stop it!" Anders choked out.

Fenris didn't need to be told twice. He took two running steps and brought his maul down on the thing.

An all too excessive quantity of unholy ichor went everywhere and, somewhere behind them, the crone screamed.

"She... she kept her power..." Anders tried to explain through his damaged throat.

"Shut up, Anders."

The crone writhed on the ground at the Warden's feet, shrieking and clawing at the air with her remaining hand. Her cloak had long since fallen away, revealing a terribly disfigured body. When Fenris and Anders approached, she hissed at them.

"Hope... what did you do... to yourself?" Anders stared down at her sadly.

"You loved me once," she croaked. Something under her wizened skin moved, like a host of insects. "But you left us. You did this to us."

The mage shook his head silently. When Fenris met his distraught gaze, the man nodded once and then turned away.

Fenris, for the last time that night, lifted his maul.

/.\./.\

"Not too bad, if I must say so," the Warden said conversationally as they walked back to Highever. "Look at these amulets and rings. And this belt!" He held up the items for examination, then pressed the belt against Fenris' waist. "I think this is a bit more streamlined. Maybe it will help you attack faster." When Fenris made no response, the other elf shrugged. "Fine. I guess we'll just sell them and share the money."

Anders was unusually silent, still rubbing the bruises on his throat. For some reason, he hadn't healed them yet.

For a while, Fenris ignored the mage and kept his thoughts to himself, but those thoughts constantly turned to Hawke and what the man must be experiencing now, at night in Danarius' keeping, and he was curious by nature. So, the moon having traveled behind them and leaving their faces, once more, in darkness, Fenris matched his pace with Anders' and asked, "Who was she?"

"Another blood mage," Anders replied hoarsely. "What does it matter?"

"She said you loved her."

Anders glanced to the side, expression inscrutable. "And?"

"So either that means love, to you, is something fleeting and inconsequential, or you are in great pain. As your ally, I should know which."

The mage snorted. "Stop talking sense, elf, it frightens me."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I don't want to."

"It's important. How am I to trust you?"

Fenris could almost feel the heat of Anders' brain as it tried to work through Fenris' reasoning. The man finally sighed. "All right. After Kirkwall, the group that I told you about, the renegade mages trying to carve out a life, she was their leader."

"And you were lovers."

"Yes." Anders looked away, into the distance, his profile thoughtful. "She wasn't some old hag at the time. And I was... I was very lonely. It was nice, for a time. She had this thing where she would grow flowers and I would pick them and make little chains-"

"That's a lot of detail, Anders."

The mage cleared his throat and rubbed it again. "Right, ah, well, as I said before, they decided to attack a little town, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, still recovering from the Blight. I fought with her, but she had hidden part of herself from me. Well, I suppose I did, too, for that matter. But she had been devising some power reconciliation spell and it tore her mind apart. That was just before I fled."

"I see."

"I know, I know... Another mage, another bad decision, we should all die, etc., ad nauseum." Anders' shoulders fell. "You don't have to tell me. But yes, I loved her, and yes, it hurts, but Maker knows I've dealt with this before."

"Cheer up, Anders," the Warden interrupted. "I've known many, many good mages, and I only had to kill a handful. Besides, you have the darkspawn taint; no demon will want to possess you."

Dog whined his agreement.

"That... isn't very helpful," Anders said. "But thanks. I think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings:**

Damnit Anders, stop touching yourself! Also, drama. Also, looking too in depth into the characters. Also, misuse of electricity (or is that _proper use_?).

**Author's Note:**

Upward and onward! I hope someone out there is enjoying it, heh. I also hope that the Warden is an acceptable OC. No fears, he won't become at all romantically involved with the other characters; he's just around to disarm traps, unlock doors, and provide more dialogue options.

As always, if there are any errors, please do point them out.

**Disclaimer:**

Written to express my dribbling adoration of the Fender pairing.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Five**

When they returned to Highever, dawn was already a rumour on the horizon and there were a few people in the streets, getting a head start on the day. Ander was exhausted and in pain, both physical and emotional, and he refused to banish it with his magic. He felt responsible for Hope's fate; his actions dissolved the circles, and he allowed her to attack and destroy and become that thing.

_So many mages walk that path_, he thought morosely. _Was I wrong to think that would change without the circle?_ He had to be right. He had to have done the right thing. If he hadn't, he might as well lay down and die. Fenris would undoubtedly help.

The thought of Fenris reminded him of his purpose. In the half-darkness, he looked at the elf and thought about Hawke, on his way to Tevinter for no other reason than that he was overly fond of Danarius' property. When Hawke was safe—no, when Hawke was _his—_then he could decide whether to live or die.

"I want you to come with me," the Warden suddenly declared, startling them. At their curious looks, he waved toward the better side of town. "I've got lodging with the mayor. You're both good in battle; exceptional, even. I want you there."

Fenris started to decline, but Anders interrupted. "We'd like that," he said politely. "Thank-you."

The Warden smirked. "I knew I could get you to warm up to me. Come on."

The mayor's mansion put the Highever Circle to shame. They strode through a great, iron gate, guarded by two heavily armoured men, and up to the front door. There, a well-dressed butler met them as though it was mid-afternoon and not the backside of the night.

"Ser," the man greeted the Warden. "May I have a bath drawn for you and your companions?"

The Warden chuckled. "Baths, please," he clarified. He looked down at his stained armour ruefully. "Some laundry would not be untoward, as well."

"Of course, ser." His haughty gaze turned to Fenris and Anders. Anders reflexively steeled himself to be thrown out. "If you would follow Urala, she will see you to your rooms and care to your needs." A thin, pale elf girl detached herself from a shadow and approached. "Will ser be joining the mayor for breakfast?" he asked of the Warden.

"Only if the mayor wants the Hero of Ferelden falling asleep in his porridge," the Warden joked. "Thank-you, but I'll take it in my room. I believe my companions will do the same."

"Of course, ser." The butler made a rather elaborate gesture and backed away, bowing slightly at the waist.

Urala stepped forward. "This way, meseres," she whispered.

"Sleep well," the Warden called after them. "And find me before you go anywhere."

"Of course we will," Fenris said quietly, barely in Anders' hearing. "He still has to pay us."

Urala settled them each in a small, but luxurious suite. The deep brass tub in the corner bore a fire enchantment. As soon as the girl ran water into it, likely from a cistern on the roof, it started to steam. With polite detachment, she waited for him to disrobe and whisked away his clothing, leaving Anders to enjoy the fruits of his labour.

After the initial, immense pleasure of immersion in the hot water, Anders felt little more than quiet, steady despair. He rested his head on the curved rim of the tub, closed his eyes, and thought about Hawke.

_Everything would be all right if he were here_. He envisioned that comfortable self-assurance and the unfaltering support and a fist in his chest squeezed. _I never should have left you alone with that elf. If I had stayed... Eventually you would have realized who was right for you._ He hadn't seen much in the few weeks he had dogged the pair's footsteps, just enough to know that Fenris never had and never would fully appreciate Hawke's affection. Every time Fenris pushed the rogue away was like another knife in Anders' heart. That should have been _him_.

_I should have kissed him when I had the chance._ Surely, one kiss would be all it would take. One close embrace, for Hawke to feel Anders' need, desire, trust, unending adoration.

As he sank deeper, until his nostrils were just above the hot, scented water and the slight film of blood, Anders could imagine it easily. That night when he went to Hawke's estate and tried to press the issue, tried to express just what Hawke meant to him. _I needed you. I need you still._ Hawke had been the only one to look at Anders with respect and mutual admiration, not fear, hatred or avarice. And when Anders had done the unthinkable, destroyed the chantry and everyone within and started the war, Hawke had stood by him.

He didn't know when he started touching himself. Between one thought and the next, images of Hawke in battle, Hawke at rest, Hawke at the Hang Man bickering with Aveline, Hawke with Fenris in a rare, fleeting embrace... They bled together, shaded and coloured and rewritten by Anders' imagination. They mingled with the increasing tension between his legs, low in his abdomen.

_He would touch me just so; and I would touch him like this... _He was a primal mage as well as a healer; he would send electricity to flicker over the other man's skin. Ice and fire would plant their own kisses on Hawke's scarred and tattooed body, followed by Anders' soft lips and searching tongue.

He pressed his shins against the side of the tub and arched his back, thrusting up and into his palm. With his eyes closed, he could imagine the movement of the water as the movements of another person. Hands on his body, breath on his skin, someone to love and want him, someone to care whether he lived or died, whether he was Anders or Justice incarnate, someone to call his name.

"Anders!" Someone banged on his door.

Startled and wrapped up in his own pleasure, the magic lying so close to the surface, Anders managed to climax and electrocute himself at the same time.

Anders found himself a few feet away from the tub, now split down one side and gushing its contents, thankfully, into the drain embedded in its stone niche. He panted and tried to remember how to make his heart beat before he recalled that it usually took care of itself.

"Anders! What in the Maker's name is going on is there?"

"Fenris," Anders groaned. Not who he wanted to see. And the elf sounded like he was about to break the door down.

The mage gingerly picked himself up off the floor and grabbed one of the soft robes Urala had provided. He was weak, his bones like melted cheese, his skin sensitized, all of his organs lying somewhere in his left leg. "I'm coming," he mumbled, having trouble making his throat work.

On the other side of the door, Fenris was absolutely livid. His hair, where one hand wasn't flattening it down, was standing on end. He clutched a robe closed with his other hand, fisted and pale-knuckled. "What are you doing in there?"

"Uh." Anders was, fortunately, too drained to blush. "Bathing. You?"

One or two angry, sleepy heads poked out of the other doors in the hall, glaring at the pair. None of them, Anders was relieved to note, seemed to have Fenris' issue of very tall hair.

"Trying to sleep," the elf hissed malevolently. "Apparently in the middle of a lightning storm!"

"Why would you do that?" Anders asked innocently.

"Because I'm sleeping next to a renegade mage with poor control."

"No one else seems to have your problem. Perhaps your room is dry."

Fenris' eyes and lyrium markings started to glow, as though he was about to enter battle. "If I feel any of your magic on me again," he spat. "I will kill you."

Anders was not born with the ability to back down from a threat like that. "Does that include when I save your life?" he asked lightly.

"Yes." The elf stalked away.

Alone in his room once again, Anders released a shaky breath. He didn't want to admit it, but Fenris legitimately frightened him. If it came down to a straight fight between them, magic versus brute force, Anders would probably lose.

_Magic._ He sank down on the edge of his bed and considered the palms of his hands. Magic could be both immensely dangerous and immensely helpful, but it was unstable, unnatural. Someone, a long time ago, had made a terrible mistake by allowing humanity access to such power. And Anders was left to figure out what to do with it.

He hadn't wanted to admit it to Fenris, but Anders had no idea why his magic had made its insidious way into Fenris' room. True, they were probably only a dozen feet apart, but a good foot of that was solid stone. _Some kind of area effect_, he had to conclude after some thought. _He definitely wasn't a target._ Not with magic like _that_.

The mage fell back, covered his face, and curled into a ball. Before misery could do more than nibble at his heels, sleep yawned beneath him and drew him down.

/.\./.\

When Anders woke, there was a set of clean and tidily folded robes on a chair just inside his door. Upon inspection, he discovered that they were the same ones he had brought, but a much brighter colour now that the grime had been brushed and soaked out. He dressed, shaved, ate the breakfast brought by another servant, and emerged from his room in a much better mood than when he had entered. Now, so long as he could leave before the mayor discovered that one of his tubs had been split in half, Anders thought he would be all right.

He found his companions in a bright, sun lit sitting room near the back of the mansion, on the first floor. The Warden, his stinking dog chewing on something at his feet, and Fenris were engaged in a lively conversation about some Ferelden legend or other. The Warden glanced up with a ready smile when Anders entered and Fenris ignored him.

"I've picked up more lore than I can count," the Warden was saying. "Everywhere I go, there are more books to read. I mostly just learn snippets of this and that."

"Hawke did the same thing," Fenris said. "He knew a little bit about everything, but never much about any particular subject." The elf bore a troubled expression.

"Sounds like we would have gotten along well, this Champion of yours and me."

"Perhaps you can meet him one day." Anders found a seat on a pleasant, flowery divan. "Once we find him, that is."

"He's gone missing?"

"Kidnapped," Fenris interrupted, finally giving Anders a hard, warning glare. "By a Tevinter."

The Warden made a thoughtful noise. "And that's why you need passage to Cumberland. The Head Enchanter told me." One red brow lifted. "Odd that such a man would be captured so readily, even by a Magister."

"There were... complications," Fenris gritted out.

Anders was only too eager to exact revenge for all the injustices that Fenris had doled out to him. "Fenris was the Magister's slave," he drawled. "When the Magister came to claim his property, Hawke was there. A better target, perhaps." The mage relished the pained look on the elf's face when he revealed his failings, his mistakes.

"That is very... troubling," the Warden said after a moment. "I do not hold to slavery. I can only assume that Hawke helped you escape in the first place." Fenris didn't argue. The Warden nodded. "Well, that's that, then. I'll have to come with you."

"What?" Anders squawked.

"That's not necessary," Fenris demurred.

"I have my reasons." The Warden held up three fingers and ticked them off. "I've always wanted to see Nevarra and Tevinter, I can't go back to Denerim now that I've tasted freedom, and us Fereldens need to stick together." This last, he directed at Anders.

"But... But..." Anders tried to come up with a plausible reason to discourage the Warden. "But you have a dog."

"Another reason," the Warden said cheerfully. "We'll help you overcome your phobia."

"I don't have a phobia!"

"Your aid will be appreciated," Fenris said formally, bowing his head. "You are a great warrior."

"Coming from you, that is a true compliment." The two elves shared a moment of mutual respect.

Anders fumed and tried to keep it off of his face. He had wanted _aid_ from King Alistair, not _the Warden_. The Warden couldn't be bought off to keep his mouth shut when Anders stealthily traded Fenris for Hawke. Especially not now, when they were apparently _bosom companions._

_This is sickening_, he thought. _I'm outnumbered, three-to-one, by elves and a stinking canine._

_Your time will come_, Justice assured him.

"Well, I suppose now is the time to prepare." The Warden reached into his armour and pulled out two pouches of jingling coin. "Here's your pay, plus a bonus. How about you meet me at the docks when you're ready and we'll see when we can catch a ship?"

They agreed quietly. Anders weighed the pouch in his hand, wondering if he would be able to afford one of the elaborate, featheerd enchanter coats that he favoured. Though perhaps a better staff should be a priority.

Fenris paced out, undoubtedly headed to whatever store sold giant axes. _House of Wholesale Slaughter?_ Anders speculated. Before the mage could leave, though, the Warden stood and touched his shoulder.

"Anders, I want to talk to you."

"Yes?" Anders eyed him guardedly.

"I just want to get to know you better. So I have a gift for you."

"What?"

The Warden looked a bit self-conscious. "It's a thing. That I do. I like to give things to my friends. Although, I hope this won't be too painful. Or out of place." After a moment of dithering, the Warden held out his hand and placed a ring in Anders' palm.

It didn't take long to recognize it. "This... this was Hope's." A small ring, a ring of metal flowers imbued with healing and stamina enhancements. Anders was surprised, pleased, and then suspicious. "Did you loot this off of her corpse?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"No, no." The Warden lifted his hands. "No, it was... Well, the boy, Everett. The stammerer. He had it."

Anders blinked. He hadn't even _thought_ of the boy. The kid had the magic talent, but his stammering made him almost useless. When Anders had travelled with the group of renegades, he remembered that Everett often followed Hope, obviously enchanted with the woman and what she promised. She had been teaching him. Had he become a blood mage, too, or an abomination? Anders hadn't noticed in the fray...

"Is he... did he die?"

The Warden shook his head. "He gave it to me after Hope was dead. I think you and Fenris were arguing about something. I don't think he wanted to see you. He said he didn't want it anymore. I thought you might."

"Yes. Thank-you, Warden."

The elf beamed. "I was worried that you would hate me for it."

"No." Anders slid the ring onto his smallest finger. He thought, sadly, as he departed, _I think I will like you too much to do what is necessary._

It took some exploring, but Anders did manage to find both a stronger staff and a complete set of robes and matching accessories that offered more than just protection from the elements. When he made his way to the docks, he thought he looked good, dangerous even, more like his old, renegade self. The sharp, salty sea are ruffled the dark indigo feathers on his shoulders and he sighed with pleasure. This boost to his confidence allowed him to approach the wraith-like figure of his Tevinter companion, waiting in the shade of a stack of crates.

Fenris, he noted, was now equipped with a large axe bearing at least two enchantments. Fancy.

"You look, uh, well-equipped," he said, trying to mend what remained of the relationship between them. Anders had realized, as he wandered on his own, that he couldn't afford any further distance between himself and the elf. The seed of a plan growing in the back of his mind required at least some measure of trust between them.

Fenris blinked and his dark brows lifted just slightly. "You noticed."

Anders realized, then, what he had just said. He bit his cheek and coughed. "I mean, you have a new axe."

"It's not as good as the one you lost, but it will do."

Anders' plans at some kind of reconciliation just about died then. Without Justice's influence, reminding him of their plans, he couldn't have continued. "I got you something."

"If it's a cat, I don't want it."

"A cat?" Anders frowned. He wouldn't trust the elf with a pet rock. "No, I got you something. A book. I know you like to read." If the Warden could do it to him, then he could do it to Fenris. He pulled it out of his pack and passed it over.

"I... am surprised," Fenris said slowly. "Madam Delilah's Rules of Etiquette for Young Gentlemen," he read the cover aloud. His green eyes lifted to meet Anders' anxious gaze. "Is this a subtle message, abomination?"

Anders rubbed his forehead. "Uh, that seemed like a much better idea when I bought it. It's just, you said you were interested in Fereldens, especially children's stories. So, I thought, what about the rules that young Fereldens grow up with?" He groped at the air, trying to explain why he thought this wouldn't get him killed and tossed into the sea. "Madam Delilah has been around forever. I grew up with those!"

"Anders, you were never a Young Gentleman." If Anders wasn't mistaken, there may have been the slightest of smirks on the elf's dark face.

"No, but I was very, _very_ good at pretending."

Fenris snorted and turned slightly, offering his shoulder to the mage and opening the book to the first page. His lips moved as he read.

_I can't believe that worked_, Anders gloated. _I didn't die and he smiled! Andraste's ear lobe, I should go and make some bets._

Fortunately for Anders' coin purse, the Warden arrived before he could wander off and lose at cards.

"The Maker smiles on us," the Warden said as he approached, offering a jaunty wave. "The captain of the Drowned Nug misplaced her passenger docket and had to take on new passengers. Namely, us."

"The Drowned Nug?" Anders repeated.

"When you say that she 'misplaced' her docket..." Fenris spoke up.

"Don't look a gift ship in the, uh, poop deck," the Warden interrupted. "Don't you have a Champion to rescue?"

The two nodded slowly, though Anders had doubts that a ship by such a name would make it out of port, much less to Cumberland.

"Well, then, unless you have any business to finish with in Highever, I suggest we get to the ship." The Warden waved them away, in the direction of the water and the forest of bobbing masts.

To Anders' surprise, the Drowned Nug was a mid-size ship of seemingly sound repair, with a solid, level-headed captain. Here was no Isabela, thief and sometime-pirate. The Nug's captain was a business woman and a mother of five. She showed them to their narrow cabins, laid down the rules, and left them to their own devices. Not long after, her sharp voice ordered their departure.

_I'm coming, Hawke_. Anders leaned against the rail at the front of the ship, or whatever nautical name it went by, and watched the water slide by her pale sides. They had a good wind and, if Anders had anything to say about it, that wind would continue, unrelenting, until they reached their destination.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings:** Dramaz, fighting, and my own very poor sense of humour.

**Author's Note:** I just realized I've been calling Fereldans "Fereldens." But I think the country is Ferelden and the people are Fereldan? Oi. My apologies, anyway.

**Disclaimer: **Written for fun! Mostly mine.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Six**

Their journey across the Waking Sea should have been uneventful. For the most part it was; the wind was strong, there was no rain or storm, the sea itself heaved and undulated, but was not violent. Aboard ship, though, there was trouble.

It started with the Warden. Fenris was beginning to get the impression that the Warden, like Hawke, sought after trouble like a hound after a hare. Beneath his casual and friendly exterior, he had a sharp and curious mind, and he saw more than he let on. He could be dangerous.

They sat in the gallows, the two of them, wiling away the long hours with cards, drink, and watching Dog do tricks.

"I love this," the Warden confided to the other elf. "Dog, go and see if you can find something."

The mabari barked once, his version of "Yes, ser!", and bounded away.

"It'll take a few minutes. Another cup?"

"Please."

They were drinking Antivan brandy, a favourite of the Warden's and stronger than Fenris was accustomed. But he was safe, or safe enough. There may be pirates, but it was unlikely that Danarius would attack on the open sea. _Not stealthy enough for him_, Fenris decided.

"Reminds me of Zevran," the Warden sighed, holding up his cup to the light streaming down from above deck. "Maker, I miss him."

"Zevran? The assassin?" As Fenris spoke, he heard Anders enter, obvious by the heavy and unsteady step, and ignored the man. One silly book wasn't going to abolish the fact that the mage was an abomination. "The Crow?"

"Former Crow," the Warden corrected. "Currently an independent." He looked askance at Fenris. "You've met?"

"Hawke was asked to hunt him down. He..." Fenris trailed off, wondering how to tell the story without involving his own jealous reactions to the Antivan's easy ways and Hawke's flirtatious responses.

"He smooth-talked his way into getting us to fight off two dozen Crows," Anders filled in. He settled next to Fenris and sighed. "Does that stuff help with sea sickness? Ugh, thank-you." He drank deeply, and, just as Fenris thought the topic was past, added, "He just about smooth-talked his way into Hawke's pants, but then he would have become yet another greasy smear on the Wounded Coast." His nod in Fenris' direction made the implication very clear.

Fenris scowled.

"I can't say I'm surprised," the Warden said and shrugged. "Zevran has good taste. I can only assume that you do, too."

Dog clattered in from the narrow hall leading to their cabins. In his mouth, a scrap of cloth.

"What did you find?" the Warden asked gleefully, holding up the damp material. Then he sighed. "Dog, what is it with you and pantaloons?"

"H-hey! Those are mine!"

"Anders' underwear?" Fenris scoffed. "I don't think I like your game, Warden." Then his gaze sharpened and his voice rose in ill-disguised horror. "Is that the _Amell Crest_?"

The two men dived for the pantaloons at the same moment. The wide-eyed rogue Warden vanished in a puff of smoke, taking the pantaloons with him, the bottle of Antivan brandy spilled and rolled onto the floor, and Fenris landed in a terribly awkward position with his breast-plate pressed to the bench, his hips on the table, his head dangling, and his arms pinned to his sides by Anders' weight. Fenris watched the bottle roll by and gathered himself for a spirit pulse.

"Andraste's little toe," Anders swore, scrambling away. "Sorry, Fenris."

Fenris carefully got to his feet and turned to face the mage. "The Amell Crest is on your underwear," he seethed. As if the mage had any _right—_But no, mages never had the right, they just thought they did. They took everything, everything good, and twisted it, tore it apart and put it together in ways that pleased them, they made tools out of people, they destroyed _everything_.

"It's, uh, that is to say..." Anders backed away and found little space for retreat in the tiny room. He looked around and scratched his blond head.

"You pathetic, imbecilic abomination!" Fenris advanced, stalking like a beast in one of the northern jungles. "When will you get it into your head that he never wanted you? It's over!"

"That's a lie!" Anders protested. "He supported me when no one else would. He stood by me. He risked his life for me!"

Everything was burning, inside and out. Because Anders was speaking the truth; Fenris couldn't deny it. Time and again, Hawke had bowed his head to Anders' needs, even if what the mage wanted was dangerous to himself and to the rest of his companions, Fenris included. He was deluding himself to think that Hawke didn't care for the abomination and in more than a strictly friendly manner. Sometimes, he felt that he had won by a very, very narrow margin; that, had the wind blown in a slightly different direction, it would have been Anders in Hawke's arms and Fenris looking on with sour envy in his belly.

This was the breaking point. Fenris had tried. Maker knows, he had tried, but this was not going to work. He couldn't even look at Anders without seeing how close Hawke had come to being destroyed by the man. If it meant travelling across Nevarra alone and submitting himself to Danarius for Hawke's release, he would do it so long as he could leave Anders' broken corpse on the bottom of the Waking Sea.

Anders seemed to have come to the same conclusion. His apprehension and nervousness was gone. Justice's spirit shone from his eyes and the cracks in his skin. Electricity crackled off of his dark blue feathers and around his clenched fists.

The two men started toward each other.

A miasma flask shattered between them. Fenris lost touch with reality for a moment and swayed unsteadily. When he came to, shaking his head, the Warden stood in front of him, arms folded and sternly staring from one to the other of the combatants.

"Ladies," said the elf, "are you done? Not that I'm not enjoying the play, but I think the good captain and her crew would appreciate it if you left their ship intact." He glanced pointedly at the exit to the above deck, where frightened faces peered down at them. "You obviously both feel strongly about the Champion, but the exciting conclusion to this adventure will only be written when you rescue your damsel. So why not focus on that?"

"I can rescue Hawke without the abomination," Fenris sneered. "The three of us, Warden. You, me and Dog."

"Likewise," Anders said, his voice still rough with Justice. "What need have we of a murderous slave?"

"I am going to pretend that you don't mean what you're saying," the Warden reprimanded. "You're both selfish. Incredibly so. But Hawke must see something in you that isn't so obvious to me. I advise you both to figure out what it is." He backed away, leaving the space between them empty. "Would your betrayal of each other win that man's heart? Or would it kill him?"

Fenris flinched and dropped his eyes to the scarred wooden boards of the galley floor. That couldn't be right. He didn't have to... to _care_ about the mage just because Hawke did. Hawke would never ask it of him, so the Warden had no right.

_Hawke never asked anything of you_, his conscience accused. _Only to stand with him. And you already betrayed him once. You ran when he was in trouble._ Perhaps it was time to... to do for Hawke more than Hawke would ask. Just as Hawke did more for Fenris than Fenris could have possibly imagined.

He lifted his gaze and found Anders'. The mage was staring with some strange, tortured expression, now bereft of Justice's glow. The colour was high in his cheeks and he was breathing heavily.

Fenris licked his lips and forced himself to speak. "We followed Hawke to the Deep Roads, against the Qunari, against the Templars, and against more demons than I can count. Is... is this so difficult?"

Anders made a helpless noise and fled, leaving behind only a tuft of feathers and the stench of burnt ozone.

The Warden sighed into the resulting silence. "He is a troubled man," he observed. He crouched and scratched Dog around the neck and jaw.

"You don't know the half of it," Fenris replied flatly, folding his arms. "He's a danger to everyone around him."

"Only because he thinks he's alone." The other elf stood and fetched his lost bottle of brandy. When he turned it upside down, only the tiniest drip fell from its mouth. The Warden made a face. "I have some experience in mediating disputes, my friend, but you and this man are something else. I once had to pull Alistair off of a Qunari Karasten, but they never came so close to the catastrophe that you and Anders are toeing." He mostly spoke to the bottle. "That mage has been backed into a corner for so long that he doesn't know how not to fight back. I think you are very much the same."

"We are nothing alike!"

"Well, other than your taste in men." Only a Fereldan would think it wise to make a joke at a time like this.

Fenris' scowl deepened. "Save your breath, Warden. I will not be convinced."

"Really?" The Warden huffed. "And I spent all that time working on my coercion skills..."

"This isn't a game!" Fenris couldn't take it anymore. Stiff-legged, he stalked off, headed for the open air.

The crew, all plain sailors, regarded him with badly-disguised terror. He ignored them and settled directly behind the railing on the stern, sticking his legs through to dangle above the water. It was an absurdly beautiful day, the late morning sun warming his back and the wooden planks around him. The blue sea sparkled and foamed beneath him, and he thought he spotted one or two spumes from nearby dolphins.

Fenris buried his head in his slender arms and decided he would wait there until they reached land. Otherwise, there was no telling what he and Anders would do to each other.

/.\./.\

The two men avoided each other for the rest of the voyage, despite the Warden's best efforts at forcing a reconciliation. The crew, at least, seemed to appreciate their discretion, and eventually stopped tip-toeing around their passengers.

After a relatively smooth journey of about a week, the group set foot on solid land and the captain let out the breath she had held for fear of instigating the destruction of her ship. There had been times when she was certain she would become the captain of burning debris scattered across half of the Waking Sea.

Anders looked even more haggard than usual when he walked off the gangplank, most likely due to sea sickness. Fenris got some grim pleasure from the dark circles around the mage's eyes and his unkempt state. It would take a lot of coin to charm anyone when he was like this.

"Ah, Cumberland," the Warden said, probably to hear his own voice more than anything else. He held out his arms to take in the docks and the city rising behind them. "I... Know nothing of this place, actually. That's exciting."

The Tevinter and the mage kept their silence until the Warden gave up the attempt with a muttered, "Find a tavern, shall we?"

Fenris was starting to tire of the insides of these watering holes. This one was much like any other, though with a different set of accents and different memorabilia tacked to the walls. Cumberland was a busy and efficient trading city, with notoriously less shady dealings than the cities of Tevinter or the Free Marches. The Nevarrans were proud, strong and didn't tolerate much in the way of crime. In the dock taverns, this translated into a general air of discontent from the foreigners who had to pay the heavy taxes. The place was clean, though, and the ale refreshing.

"You two aren't doing very well at this rescue business," the Warden observed after several minutes of sullen silence from his companions. He regarded them over his drink. At his feet, Dog noisily slurped from a bowl. "What should we do next?"

"Danarius will follow the Imperial Highway north," Fenris supplied mechanically. "He has allies everywhere with whom he can comfortably spend his nights."

"And?" the Warden prompted.

Fenris growled his impatience and irritation. "I don't know."

"So we follow," Anders supplied. "Isn't it simple? We go after the man."

"And walk into one of his traps." Fenris glowered. Was the mage this dense on purpose? "He will expect us to follow."

"Will he?" The abomination shrugged nonchalantly. "You seem to be able to predict his movements so well."

"Ladies," the Warden murmured before Fenris could answer. "You dishonour yourselves."

Fenris reined in his temper with great difficulty. "Danarius will not face us openly. He will manoeuvre us into a position where he can control us. This is how he has always dealt with his enemies."

"I like him already," the Warden commented dryly.

"This is no laughing matter," Fenris grumbled. "He will lead us somewhere where he can exploit us, exploit our weaknesses. If he hasn't already." He glanced around the tavern, suddenly nervous.

"How can he expect us? The Warden? The Warden's... Pet?" Anders said the word with distaste. "We should close the distance as quickly as possible, while he's still prepared to take advantage of an elf with an axe."

"Idiot."

"Coward."

It would have been so much easier to just kill the man now, but there were witnesses. "He has watchers," Fenris insisted. "He'll be prepared."

"I have to agree with Anders," the Warden said. "Honestly, I'm not very good at stealth and subtlety. My way of getting around the guards is to kill them all, anyway."

Fenris frowned as he tried to express just how wrong this was. "You cannot underestimate him. I already did."

"Then what do you ask of us?" the Warden asked gently.

"I..." Despair dragged him down, miring his thoughts. "I don't know."

"Then we go with the only plan we have. At least until we have more information." The Warden's expression was not unsympathetic, which almost made it worse. "We will be cautious. But that's all we can do, Fenris."

The Tevinter elf gripped his cup, grimacing at the sensation of helplessness that threatened to overcome him. Why were these two other men taking over? Why couldn't he be the strong one?

"We'll find him," Anders spoke quietly.

Fenris shook his head, but didn't say what he was thinking. _I don't want you to._

/.\./.\

They separated after sharing their midday meal. The Warden went to find them transportation for the journey by land. Anders disappeared to do whatever Anders does when he was alone (Fenris balked to think of the specifics, recalling some rather disturbing sounds that had come from Anders' room at the Highever mayor's home). This left Fenris to his own devices. He spent his time hunting for hints as to when Danarius came through the city and where he was headed. Although Fenris assumed that the Magister was taking the quickest route to Minrathous, the elf wanted to back up his assumptions with evidence.

It took most of an afternoon in the hot sun, sore feet, and nearly a sovereign worth of bribes to find some useful information.

"We get lots of Magisters," said one of the stable hands at the Cumberland Viscount's mansion. He was a pale elven boy, intercepted by Fenris outside of his master's walls while emptying buckets of sludge in the midden heap. "Some stay for weeks, some for a night, some for hours."

Fenris quelled his impatience and tossed a silver coin at the lad. "Were any named Danarius?"

"We don't learn their names, mesere."

"An older man. Accompanied by many slaves and soldiers, a few other mages."

"Ah, yes, that sounds familiar. Stayed for one night about a week ago. The servants' quarters were very full."

Fenris had to push down his excitement as forcefully as his frustration. "Tell me what you remember."

"Well, mesere, it was a dark and quiet night." The lad pointedly held out a palm.

Stifling a sigh, Fenris dropped a silver into the dirty hand.

"He was just like any other Magister, mesere. Though there was some queer screams coming from the dungeon that night. More than the usual. That and the dying slaves made it hard to sleep."

"Maker help him." Fenris rubbed his face as he sent up the brief prayer. "Which way did he travel?"

"That I don't know, mesere. Though two coins might find you a man who does."

The child was probably lying, but the coins were worth the chance of knowing. Fenris handed them over with the name of the tavern in which he could be found, and then watched the lad run off, back to work in his master's stables.

Fenris returned to their current unremarkable headquarters, aching for a drink. He should have felt successful, but he just felt drained and pessimistic about their chances, and his mind was haunted with the screams of his beloved, thoughts of Hawke stretched helpless on some device of torture as Danarius... worked on him. The Tevinter wasn't entirely pleased that the Warden was already there, staring into space over his empty supper dishes. After the close confines of the ship, Fenris thought that he had tolerated enough conversation for at least a month.

Dog greeted him when he sat across from the Warden, shoving his large head onto Fenris' lap and drooling affectionately on the black-clad thigh. Fenris absently traced the scars on the mabari's domed skull. When the serving girl came near, he indicated that he needed a drink and a meal.

After some quiet contemplation, Fenris broke the silence. "He was here. With Hawke."

"Good to have that confirmed," the Warden replied neutrally. "Any indication of where they went?"

"An informant might arrive to tell us, depending on how trustworthy the Viscount's servants are. Do we have transportation?"

"I need to talk to you and Anders about that," the Warden said, his expression vaguely uncomfortable.

Fenris was instantly suspicious. "Why?"

The Warden held up his gloved hand for peace. Then he smiled. "I got a gift for you."

The Tevinter elf blinked, more than a little surprised. Then he frowned. "Are you trying to... win me over? With bribes? Because Anders already tried." The only reason why Fenris still had that book in the bottom of his pack was because he had too much respect for books to just set it on fire.

"Maybe a little bit," the Warden said with blatant lack of shame. "I know that this is hard for you, that things are... tense. Between you and Anders. I just want you to know that I am your friend." He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small, flat box and slid it across the table toward the other elf. "I don't want to interfere in the dispute between you two, but I'm here to help."

Fenris picked it up and discovered that it was a finely-made box of playing cards. "Cards," he said, raising his eyebrows at the Warden. "Really?"

"You like playing and all we have is my tatty deck. I thought you'd want your own." The Warden shrugged. "They're a little nicer."

Fenris shook his head, white hairs straying. "You just want me to lose more money."

The Warden laughed. "Perhaps your own deck will be kinder to you, my friend."

At the Warden's insistence, they played a few rounds of Diamondback while they awaited Anders' appearance. Fenris kept an eye on the door, both for the abomination and for any sign of the informant that the child had promised. Dog fell asleep, still drooling on Fenris' leg, so that, when the tavern was suddenly invaded by several shades, two shadow warriors and an arcane horror, the Tevinter fugitive's pants were quite wet when he sprang to his feet.

The other patrons screamed and stampeded toward the back or dived under the table as the shades undulated into the main room. Some took up arms, but they were obviously over powered by the other-worldly creatures. The shadow warriors vanished in dark puffs, to prey unseen on their victims, and the arcane horror stood just inside the main door. It started to cast and Fenris felt the crackle of magic fill the air.

Fenris ghosted, one metaphorical foot in the Fade and one in the real world, and attacked with wild ferocity. He was almost glad for the outlet. His axe split and shattered his enemies' incorporeal forms and furniture alike. He gloried in the power that throbbed in his veins. Even when a shadow warrior appeared behind him and struck a nasty blow with a dark dagger on his lower back, he never faltered or flinched. In battle, at least, he knew who he was and what to do.

Eventually, only the arcane horror remained, waving its skeletal arms and flinging spells at the three fighters. Dog, Fenris noticed with no little shock, was lying unconscious in the splintered remains of a table. The Warden bore an expression of pained determination, his teeth clenched and the tendons protruding in his neck, trapped in a crushing magical prison. Fenris winced in sympathy, having experienced this spell before.

Fenris didn't waste any time in lunging at the horror, axe sweeping around in a wicked blow, but the creature had already prepared a spell; a mental blast that sent the elf flying backwards to smash into the glass bottles behind the bar.

_I hate glass_, Fenris grumbled internally. _Why is it always glass?_ He picked himself up, grimacing at the alcohol soaking into his armour.

The arcane horror glided toward him, flames flickering in the ragged, billowing sleeves extended toward Fenris.

Only then did Fenris become aware of the danger he was in, drenched as he was in hard liquor.

The flames grew. Then the arcane horror exploded with violent force, torn apart by a giant stone fist.

Anders stood in the tavern doorway, staff at the ready. "I knew your drinking habits would get you in trouble," he said in the ensuing silence.

Fenris glowered and started to reply, but he didn't get a chance before the second shadow warrior blurred out of stealth and shoved its dagger deep under Anders' ribs.

The Tevinter fugitive howled a war cry and threw himself forward, lacerated feet somehow finding purchase on the bar. The shadow warrior stepped back into the shadows, but Fenris knew well enough where it was that he could whirl his weapon in the space it had occupied. He made contact and the thing shrieked and died.

Anders lay in a heap on the floor, making the most ignoble wheezing, gurgling noises as he tried to bleed to death. Fenris dropped to his knees by the mage, pulled out one of his vials of Mythal's Favor, and broke it open over Anders' abdomen. The shimmering fluid showered down and quickly evaporated into a rejuvenating mist.

"You're going to be fine," Fenris muttered in a hard voice. It was difficult to determine the mage's condition, curled in a ball in his layers of robes and tattered pantaloons as he was, so the elf manhandled him onto his back so he could see Anders' face. The man looked pale, but otherwise well and alive, though his eyes were tightly closed. "Come on, abomination. Don't lay about."

The mage groaned and scrubbed his eyes, rolling and curling toward Fenris. "I hate passing out," he told Fenris' knees. "All I hear is Justice complaining: 'Get up, Anders! Why didn't I possess another warrior with enough fortitude to stay on his feet?'"

_Is he joking?_ Fenris couldn't tell. The elf shook his head and stood, wincing at the pain in his feet. When he had a home again, there would be no glass. Ever.

On the other side of the room, the Warden was treating his mabari with an injury kit. The man looked up, as though sensing Fenris' attention, and offered a small, secretive small to the warrior. For some reason, the expression made Fenris extremely uncomfortable, as though the Warden was laughing at him for something he'd just done.

"That may have been the informant I was told about," Fenris said as he looted the remains of their attackers. Only the arcane horror left an honest corpse, desiccated and dressed in ancient mage's robes. "I imagine Danarius has a few gifts waiting for anyone asking questions about him." The corpse produced a ring and a belt, the latter inscribed with symbols indicating some boost in magical power. He tossed it in Anders' direction to let the mage decide if he wanted it.

"It's fun," said the Warden. He remained at his mabari's side, petting the dog and watching Fenris wander about the room. "Better than killing the living, in my books. A lot less blood."

"Except for mine." Anders slowly got to his feet and stared down at the hole and the blood stain. He gingerly went to a bench, sat, and hurriedly stood again when the furniture gave a dangerous creak and collapsed.

"You should be more careful," Fenris chided.

"Yes, thank-you, elf, I didn't know that." Anders made a show of disdainfully examining the belt and then replacing the one he wore.

"By the Maker, what did you do to my tavern?"

The tavern keeper, a clump of frightened staff and patrons cowering behind him, stood in the doorway to the back room, his expression horrified.

"Well, I think this may be a good time to continue on," said the Warden. "Wouldn't you?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Warnings**: None. Well, other than Anders being a bit of a man-whore (Don't get me wrong, I ADORE him. I just suspect that he has his own needs. Man-needs). And Orlesians.

**Author's Note:** I am probably going to get shot for this. *hides*

Also, I kind of feel like I'm talking to myself here. I don't suppose someone would like to say hello?

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters! Well, except maybe the OC, but who would want her?

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Seven**

"I didn't agree to anything," the Warden explained as they approached the Cumberland merchants' district. Like Kirkwall's Hightown, the stone work was pleasant and in good repair and the city maintained gardens and flowered trees to shade the upper class customers. "But I think this will work out best for us."

"We can't afford any more delays," Fenris said in his low, serious growl. "Danarius has already laid traps for us."

_Is his voice like that because he yells so much?_ Anders wondered idly. After the shadow warrior had just about gutted him the pain and the ice cold shock had nearly overwhelmed him, but he could recall the elf's howl of rage and imminent death. He had never thought to hear such a cry on his behalf. _Though, that's probably what he'll sound like when he finds out what I've done._ The mage shook his head, then, banishing the thought. The less he contemplated it, the less likely he was to reveal it to his companions.

"We also can't afford to buy horses of our own," the Warden replied. "Not the kind of horses that will get us to the Minanter in any kind of good time. That leaves us with... stealing what we need, finding work to pay for it, or finding work that takes us where we're going. I thought the latter would be most efficient." As always, the Warden had a way of stating things that made his decisions seem like the only reasonable way of doing things.

Fenris folded his arms and frowned deeply, but didn't argue. Anders, too, couldn't come up with an argument. So they accompanied the Warden to a booth thick with Orlesian wares. A well-dressed, middle-aged woman stood before the shop. When the group approached, her lip lifted with disdain.

"Two elves, a dog and a man in a dress," she said with a heavy accent. "I thought you said that you were warriors? I cannot send my daughter with anything less."

"Better than warriors," the Warden replied. "Tell her, Anders."

The mage blinked at the unexpected request, then smoothly stepped forward and summoned fire to play in the palm of his hand. He smiled at the woman, she wasn't entirely unattractive, and murmured, "Madam, the very forces of nature will bend to your command with us in your hire. And what nature cannot dispatch, my friends and their very sharp objects can handle." He didn't even know what the woman needed them for, but he could see the gleam of desperation in her eyes. "Dear lady, we are here for you. Tell me what beleaguers your enchanting mind."

She melted.

"Maker preserve us," Fenris muttered somewhere behind him.

"My daughter is to attend Lord Fawnley in Nevarra City in mere weeks," she explained. "But my husband, bless his heart, died long ago and we've no other family. She needs an escort; I cannot send her alone, an Orlesian maiden in this terrible land." Her eyes narrowed. "You are not Nevarran, are you?"

"Are Nevarrans so handsome, dear lady? No, we are Fereldan. And we would be honoured to protect your daughter."

She considered him critically, as though examining a shipment of silks for her shop. "A pity that you are Fereldan, but I suppose you'll do. I've told Marilyn to pay you only once you've reached Nevarra City, though, with money I've sent ahead, so robbing her will get you nothing."

"That is the furthest thought from my mind."

"Robbing her of _anything_ will put a troop of chevaliers on your tail." She stared at him firmly.

"That would be the furthest thought from my mind, if only her mother was not so beautiful. We are honourable men, madam."

"Very well." She sighed deeply. "If only I could accompany her, but the business here requires too much of my attention."

"Of course."

"Return here on the morrow. I've already ordered horses made ready."

"We will be here."

"Unless you would like to stay with me tonight. I could give you something to ease the temptation of my maiden daughter."

Anders nearly coughed at the heavy-handed flirtation. He managed another smooth smile. "Dearest lady, I wish I could accept your generous and very, very delectable offer. But magic requires singleness of thought and great reserves of energy. I will be absolutely useless to your daughter and my companions if you have your way with me tonight."

"Well..." She stepped closer and lay a pale and long-fingered hand on his chest, toying with the ties on his coat. "Perhaps when you come this way again."

He covered her hand with his own. "Perhaps. Until tomorrow, madam."

"Good night, Fereldan."

The other two were quiet as they walked away from the Orlesian merchant and into Cumberland's twilight. Then, once they were out of ear shot, the Warden snickered. "I've never heard of that before, Anders. Does sex really impact your magical performance? Or vice-versa?"

Anders, after that successful exchange, was feeling frivolous. Like a good fight, it got his blood up. "Would you like to find out?" he asked.

The Warden laughed and Fenris sighed audibly.

"So we play babysitter for the ride to the river, and then what? Nevarra City is out of our way."

"But not by much. The benefit of horses and good pay will make up for the detour." The Warden clapped Fenris on one narrow shoulder. "Fear not, my friend, this will be better over all."

"It might be fun," Anders added. "Orlesian women are a species all their own. It should certainly be interesting."

"This journey has been interesting enough," Fenris replied through his teeth.

"Come now, you'll feel better after some sleep. It's been a long day." Always the mediator, the Warden ushered them along toward a clean, medium-sized inn.

/.\./.\

Not unexpectedly, Anders had difficulty achieving slumber throughout that night in Cumberland. The arrangements he had made earlier that day, outside the knowledge of his companions, ate at his mind. He didn't like it, he didn't like the idea of betrayal, but it was the right thing to do. It would make everything better.

_Any means to an end_, he thought morosely, staring at the low, slanted ceiling above his head. They were in rooms on the very top floor; the attic, really. A small square window let in enough light to create shadows with the scant furnishings. He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, and ruminated. _That's always been the way of it. A man must be willing to sacrifice everything to do what's right._

It was difficult to tease apart his own thoughts from Justice's. Had he always been so relentless? Had he always been so ruthless? The feelings of guilt made him think not. Surely, if he had been born this way, he wouldn't shy away from admitting his own deeds.

_Just like the Chantry_, he reminded himself. _It had to be done. No compromise._ But, for some reason, all of that death and destruction seemed to pale in comparison to what he had just done. Was it less forgivable? Or was it just his own heart protesting his actions?

Regardless, it made sleep impossible. The mage tossed and turned and listened to Justice whispering in the back of his mind, blending with the whispers in other parts of the inn and the city beyond his window. A cool, sea-scented breeze curled through the air and caressed his skin. At first it was pleasant and then it was irritating and then it just made him miss something he had never had. Eventually, he stormed to the window and slammed it shut.

For a while, he distracted himself with thoughts of Hawke, until Hawke's face morphed into Hope's, which soon became the mask of the crone, twisted with hatred. That was disturbing enough, but then Fenris' features got involved and Anders growled his despair into his pillow. He didn't want to think about the elf. He didn't want to think about his own quick reaction to save Fenris from that arcane horror and the pain of that certain conflagration. He didn't want to think about the incredible speed with which Fenris had attacked the shadow warrior.

_We fight well together_, the mage had to admit. _For all that he hates magic and I hate him, for all that we fight each other more often than not. I don't think I've ever had a stronger ally apart from Hawke. _He recalled the many, many battles that the three of them had been in, usually with Varric picking off enemies from afar, or sometimes with Aveline turning herself into a protective wall between Anders and some demon tide.

With a pang that nearly brought tears to his eyes, Anders remembered those days, those terrible and exciting and wonderful days, when they had all fought together. Hawke always with his easy, unassuming friendship. His way of asking Anders to fight at his side, as though Hawke needed the mage more than Anders needed to be... needed. It had always been an honour to know that Hawke trusted him. He had felt joy whenever he struck down an enemy before it could even think of charging the Champion, and his pleasure was even greater when Hawke stumbled or fell and Anders was there to pick him back up and make him well again.

With Hawke's other companions there had at least been respect, if not the same tight friendship. In his dark moments, there had been the smug feeling of pride as Hawke came to him, again and again, for his help with that dungeon crawl, this treasure hunt, that confrontation with some gang of thugs. He had felt there was something more to the man's need for Anders' help, that it was more than the mage's power that he was after.

Too bad that Fenris had always been there as well, that slender and unstable shadow with rage issues and a steady hatred for mages. The only times when Hawke didn't have the elven warrior at his side was when he knew the mages needed his aid. When Anders needed him.

_That won't be an issue anymore_, consoled a voice from inside. _With you, Hawke can be completely honest._ Soon enough, there would be none of the duplicity.

Or would there? What would Hawke think if he learned what Anders had done?

_He'll come around. He'll see that I was right. That I did it for him._

_Fenris is a danger to him._

He heard, again and again, Fenris' war cry, like a voice from the depths of his own spirit. He closed his eyes tightly and buried his face, trying to force it away. It wasn't the cry itself that frightened him, it was that Fenris had made it on Anders' behalf. As awful as Fenris' hatred was, Fenris' concern was so much worse.

He remembered that moment on the ship, after the Warden had scolded them both for fighting, when Fenris had looked at him and spoke the first words of reconciliation. Anders couldn't handle it and he had run.

He couldn't allow Fenris to become an ally or a friend. If he did, then what he had done that day... it would be a worse crime than any he had ever committed.

The long night dragged on and Anders' thoughts turned in tighter and tighter circles. When the sun broke over the horizon, his companions came down to the common room and found the mage already awake and brooding over a bowl of some kind of grainy mush.

He forced a smile when he saw them, the dark elf following the pale, and hoped that they wouldn't notice how terrible he looked.

"You look awful," observed the Warden. "Did you go and visit that Orlesian?"

"Ugh."

The Warden laughed. "Don't let her hear you say that. You'll break her heart."

"Then she should not give it so freely," Anders grumbled. He really wasn't in the mood for the Warden's gentle teasing.

"Good advice," Fenris said, his voice and green eyes hard.

Anders found that meeting the dark elf's gaze was beyond him. The mage stared down at his food and concentrated on forcing some of it into his cramped stomach.

Back at the merchant's booth, they found a clump of well-bred horses, held by a stable master in Orlesian regalia, and two Orlesian women. The elder met them immediately, allowing Anders to take her hand and brush his lips over her knuckles. The younger blushed at the group of them over her lacy fan.

"My daughter," said the merchant. "Marilyn de Montrouge."

"A pleasure," Anders lied, bowing. The Warden nodded and Fenris maintained his silence.

"Thank you for taking charge of me," said the Orlesian maid, her voice light and breathy. "I need a strong hand."

The Warden coughed violently. The air around Fenris darkened. Dog whined.

Anders charmed his most charmingly. "We will fly across Nevarra, my lady. The fleet of foot have no need for strength of hand."

_That didn't even make sense_, he thought. The maiden giggled, though, and fluttered her fan before her face. Other than her dark painted eyes, arching brows and pale forehead, barely anything of her could be seen. She wore a full white and yellow dress in the Orlesians' elaborate style, complete with a long scarf to cover her hair. Her silhouette was the perfect hourglass and the slits in the fabric of her sleeves flashed brief glimpses of the slender limbs beneath.

"She is expected in Nevarra City in eight days," her mother reminded them. "If she is late, they will send out the city guard."

This was undoubtedly an exaggeration, but Anders didn't question it. They had no intention of delaying their journey, nor lingering in the Nevarran countryside with a fair Orlesian maid, no matter how many ballads revolved around just such a topic.

"Here is coin for the inns along the way. I don't want you to drink to excess. You _must_ protect Marilyn at all costs."

"You have our word, madam." Anders swept a deeper bow. "Your daughter could not be in better company."

Finally, the woman released Marilyn into their custody. They mounted their borrowed beasts, both Anders and Fenris needing to adjust their weaponry to suit. Two additional horses were provided to carry Marilyn's wardrobe and the Warden took charge of them without asking. Marilyn swayed like a graceful dancer in her saddle, her dress and scarf trailing in the air behind her when her pretty white horse moved.

With the mabari loping alongside, the group trotted out of Cumberland and struck out on the Imperial Highway.

/.\./.\

The first day of riding wasn't terribly exciting. Marilyn was mostly quiet, other than to comment on bits of the countryside as they passed. The fair weather held, clear but for a few clouds that had occasion to scud across the sun. Anders found that he enjoyed the sudden, wide open spaces, the great grassy plains, the bits of forest hither and thither, the roll of hills and the mysterious Tevinter ruins that lurked in the shadowy places. The air was clean and scented of summer grasses and dust. As they rode, the mage started to relax.

For their midday meal, they stopped and ate a cold lunch in the shade of some wide elms while their mounts grazed nearby. Judging by the polished logs and rocks scattered about the area, this spot had been used by travellers for ages.

Marilyn stayed close to Anders, either because the other three were elves and a dog or because Anders had done all the talking since Cumberland. She nibbled on fruit and bread, covering her mouth with a bit of lace, and pouted at the meat pie.

"I do not like cold meat," she murmured. "Meat should be hot." Her painted eyes flicked to Anders' face.

Anders ignored the innuendo. "Allow me, dear lady." He carefully took the pie from her tiny hand and, with a bit of concentration, warmed it to steaming. "Now it is quite hot. Don't burn yourself."

Her lips parted in surprise, either real or feigned, he couldn't tell, and she gasped. "Amazing! You are truly talented, serah."

Despite himself, Anders gloated inwardly. _You have no idea, little dove._

When they remounted and started off again in the afternoon warmth, Anders' skin crawled with the sensation of being watched. He glanced back and met Fenris' steady glare. Even for the elf, it was hostile. _You don't like that someone is impressed by the power of the gods?_ Anders thought smugly. _Not everyone thinks I'm a disaster waiting to happen._ He smirked and straightened in the saddle. Perhaps this leg of their journey wouldn't be so terrible after all. It had been a long time since anyone had attended to him with quite the luster of this Orlesian maid. She reminded him of a much younger Anders living a much simpler life.

"Do you like cats, my lady?" he asked her.

/.\./.\

They spent their first night at one of the busy highway's many large inns. It was a relatively fancy place, nice enough to provide for most travellers. With the Orlesian merchant's money, they were able to rent a large room for Marilyn and beds in the communal dorm, reserved for the servants of travelling nobility, for themselves.

The four of them, with Dog lying at his master's feet, dined together at a private table in the warm and quaintly decorated common room. The meal was of passing fair quality, fresh meats and vegetables from the surrounding farms. The room was sparsely populated with maybe three other small groups, all Nevarran.

Anders and Marilyn talked comfortably while they ate. Fenris brooded. The Warden interjected the occasional comment, usually regarding some facet of Fereldan society or geography, but Marilyn tended to ignore the man. Anders was starting to get the impression that the Orlesian was not fond of elves. Anders wondered what she would think if he told her that the elf she was being so rude to was the Hero of Ferelden and the other elf was lover of the Champion of Kirkwall.

"You are so interesting, serah," she gushed when they had finished eating. "Please, tell me more of your travels. You are like a character in a story!" She lay her hand on Anders' and looked beseechingly into his face. "It is so romantic. Will you join me for some wine, away from the others?"

He blinked. "At another table, dove?"

She tittered. "You call me 'dove'! Oh, I do like that. And no, serah, in the comfort of my sitting room. I should be very lonely without your company. I have never spent a night away from home, you know."

Anders glanced at the other two, hoping that one could offer him some escape, but the elves stared away from him, Fenris at the table and the Warden at the large fireplace. "Those look like river stones," the Warden commented to Fenris. "Do you think they're from the river?" Fenris grunted noncommittally.

"It, uh, it would please me greatly to make you happy," Anders finally said. "I don't think your mother would approve, though."

"My mother!" the maiden scoffed, a faint frown appearing between her brows. It swiftly vanished, though, and she smiled at him. "I ask only for your conversation in my sitting room. I shall stitch, and you will weave your tales, and we will share some warm cider. I find these stone walls become quite chilly at night." Her dainty hand moved up his forearm.

Anders swallowed. "Well, that should be very pleasant, dove."

She didn't give him a chance to formulate any further objections. "Come, serah. This environment tires me." He stood at her urging and offered the crook of his elbow to support her to her feet. Then, without a word of farewell to the elves, she pulled the mage toward the stairs.

It was as Marilyn said; they drank hot cider and Anders told his stories while the maiden stitched a piece of embroidery. However, as the fire warmed her sitting room, Marilyn disappeared several times and returned to her chair wearing fewer and fewer garments. Anders tried to ignore the obvious ploy, but he appreciated physical beauty as much as any man, and he was drowsy from lack of sleep and too much wine. When the maid sat across from him in only her tight-fitting white under-dress, curls of soft brown hair escaping her scarf, he lapsed into silence and just stared at her fire-lit figure.

"You look tired, serah," she murmured. She stood gracefully and came to his side. Her perfect oval face was close to his, her young body bending over him. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Would you lay with me for a time?"

A large part of Anders shouted at him to say yes. If he had, perhaps, been slightly less exhausted, he may have been moved to join her, her mother's warnings be-damned. But he had trouble keeping his eyes open and had a fairly good sense that, should he accept the maiden's offer, he would most likely just embarrass himself. So he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "I thank you for your concern, dove, but I had better retire to my own bed. I won't trust myself to protect you, otherwise."

She pouted, but, again, the expression swiftly vanished. "Very well. Perhaps another night." Her fingers pressed his arm in a most delightful fashion, adding meaning and emphasis to her words.

"Perhaps."

She bid him good night at her door, accepting the kiss he lay on her dainty hand.

He was startled at how late the night had grown while he was with the Orlesian maid. Little wonder that he was nearly sleep walking. Even Justice was quiet. Anders shuffled his way down to the first floor and the long room at the back of the building where the servants slept. In the very faint light of the crescent moon, he sought out an empty bed and collapsed onto it, barely taking the time to unstrap the staff from his back. Briefly, he wondered where, in this room with all its soundly sleeping occupants, Fenris and the Warden had lain their heads. Then that thought drowned under waves of dark oblivion.


	8. Chapter 8

**Warnings: **None. Well, other than over-use of DA battle tactics.

**Author's Note:** Honestly, parts of this chapter make me cringe. Apparently I was delirious while writing it. But some of it was salvageable enough that I didn't want to get rid of it altogether. I hope it is somewhat enjoyable, and I promise that Fenris has no more "alas, poor me!" moments in the future.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Eight**

It shouldn't have bothered him. Not really. He should have been happy about the situation. If Anders wanted to give himself to some Orlesian harlot, it could only be good for Fenris and Fenris' relationship with Hawke. Especially if Anders decided that his heart lay in Nevarra City and he never intruded on Fenris' life again.

That first night, though, listening to Anders stumble into the dormitory, a miasma of the Orlesian's strong perfume following him, Fenris had gritted his teeth on his anger. Then, waking and finding the mage still asleep, his arms around his staff like the embrace of a lover, a dreamy half-smile on his lips, Fenris was nearly overcome by the urge to disassemble the entire hated inn. With his axe. Instead, he kicked the side of Anders' bed with enough force to make it slam into its neighbour and bounce back.

"Wha-?" The mage fell into the narrow space between the two beds, tangled in the thin blankets and finally made it to his feet, staff in one hand and energy hissing around the other. His head whirled this way and that, loose blond hairs flying, as he sought out an enemy.

The room, apart from a very, very angry elf and the golden morning light, was empty.

"You over-slept," Fenris snarled.

Anders relaxed with a sigh. He looked at the rearranged beds in confusion. Then he looked at Fenris. He blinked slowly, obviously not quite awake. "Sorry," he finally said, his sleepy expression open and apologetic, fringed by his mussed hair.

Fenris choked on his rage and stalked away.

The Warden had already gone to fetch Marilyn, accepting the duty with a shrug. "I'm used to nobility," he had said calmly. When Fenris went to the common room, the Warden had returned and bore a bemused expression. He looked up at Fenris and smirked. "Where iz my Anderz?" he said in a heavily accented falsetto. "'E iz ze only one I want to see, elf! Zend 'im to me!" He snickered, but his humour swiftly died when he noticed that Fenris wasn't laughing. "You don't find this funny?" he asked.

"Hardly," Fenris replied. "It's a distraction. I don't want to be delayed because of Anders' hedonism."

The Warden quirked a red eyebrow. "A distraction for him or for you, my friend?"

Fenris couldn't even think of an answer that encompassed just how wrong that question was, so wrong that it didn't even deserve an answer. So he didn't bother. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and went to find something to fill his belly. At least he could alleviate one of his gnawing concerns.

Anders, his hair brushed and his stubble shaved away, entered soon after and spoke with the Warden. Fenris glowered at them from where he lurked near the kitchen door. He didn't want to talk to them, either of them. So he watched, instead, as the Warden repeated his impersonation for the mage's benefit and Anders rolled his eyes and grinned indulgently.

_He loves this_, Fenris fumed. _Arrogant bastard. All he wants in life is some little chit to fawn all over him. "Oh, Anders, do some magic for me! Tell me about your adventures! Turn into an abomination and kill us all!" Dread Wolf take him._ He didn't usually refer to the elven gods, but he made an exception in this case. He had asked the Maker often enough to knock the mage off of the mortal plain, it was time to ask someone else.

Anders didn't even notice Fenris' hostility. The mage summoned a servant, spoke to the girl for a moment, and then went himself up the stairs to the Orlesian's room. As he went, he tugged and adjusted his clothing, smoothed his hair, straightened his feathers like a preening jungle bird getting ready to mate.

_Disgusting._

"It won't last," the Warden assured him as they walked out to the stables to ready their mounts and breathe in the fresh morning air, only slightly tainted by the stink of horse. Dog trotted with them, butting his head against the angry elf's hip. "You see this all the time; noble women taking advantage of their employees."

"That doesn't help."

"Then tell me what will." The Warden gazed at Fenris earnestly. "What do you want?"

"I...I want Hawke back."

The Warden nodded. "And thus an adventure was born. But that doesn't explain why you're ready to split that woman like a rotten log."

"Do I need an explanation?" Fenris snapped back obstinately.

"I suppose not. She's not especially kind or lady-like, and she's seducing your companion."

"Hn."

The Warden considered him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then he shrugged. "Well, you obviously don't want to talk about it."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Just remember: we need the money. And when the woman is gone, you'll have Anders to yourself again."

"I don't want him to myself."

"All right, so you want to share him. That's fine." The Warden held up his hands magnanimously, apparently not realizing quite how much danger he was in. "To each their own, my friend. H-hey, wait!"

Fenris was already gone, storming out through the inn gates. Maker help him, he would walk to Minrathous!

The others caught up to him some time later, long enough for the red to have faded from Fenris' vision. The sun was already well-established in the sky on his right and the cool, damp smell of morning was giving way to the dry scent of day. Anders and the Orlesian went by at a brisk trot, her voice lifted in a delighted laugh by something Anders had said, and neither of them glanced at the dark elf. The Warden settled into a walk beside the warrior and released the reins of Fenris' mount.

The other elf looked unusually solemn. "I spoke out of turn, Fenris. I'm sorry."

"Hn." Fenris had no interest in accepting an apology.

The Warden waited for several steps. Then he sighed and sped his horse to a trot, leaving Fenris to follow as he would.

Fenris allowed the others to get far ahead of him. For a while, he walked on his own bare feet, focusing on the hard stone of the highway. His mind didn't form much in the way of coherent thought beyond vague sensations of anger and need and helplessness. He couldn't even begin to understand what was wrong in his head, why he was caught in such a stranglehold of fury. Up til now, he had hated Anders on principle and because the man was a prat. But now... Now it went deeper.

Finally, Fenris calmed, or at least tired too much to sustain the powerful emotion. He looked up and noticed that he could no longer see his companions. Suddenly, in the middle of that road, not a soul around, about a thousand hiding places in the surrounding scrub and stony hills, he felt vulnerable and exposed. He quickly mounted and urged his horse to a fast canter.

His anxiety was unfounded. He overcame the others without any trouble, already preparing to sit and eat. When Fenris found them and felt that heady relief, that they were safe and he wasn't alone, he hated himself for his need. He joined them grudgingly where they sat on blankets in the lee of some broken, crumbling walls, opting to perch on the stones nearby rather than sit with them. Anders and the woman didn't notice. The Warden, though, always vigilant, brought the dark elf a small meal, left over fare from the inn.

Fenris turned his back on the laughing couple (Would they ever _stop_ laughing? What was so funny, anyway?) and watched the countryside as he thoughtfully consumed his food. As always, without outward distractions, his mind turned to Hawke. With every day that passed, the less convinced Fenris was that they would ever be together again. Even if they found the man, would he be the same? Would he be broken or changed in some way? Would Danarius' magic infect him, twist him, damage him beyond repair?

The elf shuddered. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about what he would find.

The day wore on and led them to another night in another servants' dormitory. Fenris barely slept, uneasy with the other people so close by, his hand always ready on his weapon. Again, Anders joined them very late and stinking of perfume. The next morning, though, Fenris felt numb. He moved like a golem, responding only automatically to the Warden's talk.

Another day passed, as uneventful as the last. Fenris started to feel like he'd been riding in this cloud of misery for an eternity, trapped in a nightmare with Hawke some distant goal and the mockery of Anders and the Orlesian maid's pleasure some immediate torture.

They found another inn as the world darkened around them and they took two rooms this time, one for the woman and one for her escorts. After they had eaten, and without a word to his companions, Fenris wrapped himself in a blanket and curled up on the floor, leaving the beds to the Warden and Anders. The Warden was wise enough not to argue and Anders was already in the other room with the Orlesian. Dog, intelligent and affectionate beast that he was, lay his great mass against Fenris' back and snored.

Fenris didn't think he would sleep. He was tense, waiting for the heavy step of the human mage, returning with the stink of the female on him. It never came, though, and Fenris passed into a fitful, dreamless sleep without realizing it. When the light changed and he startled awake, he immediately noticed that there was only one other breath in the room; the Warden. Anders never came.

Fenris slipped out before the Warden woke. Dog lifted his head to watch Fenris leave, but did not follow. The inn was barely stirring, beyond a yawning waif of a girl stirring the main fireplace to life. She didn't hear him go by.

He waited in the courtyard, in the first cold grey light of morning, the air thick and mysterious with moisture. As the sky brightened, there were more noises from the inn as workers and patrons alike woke and began their days. Once, the Warden emerged and looked about. He spotted Fenris, but something about the dark elf's face must have warned him away, for he did not approach. The scent of food wafted out of the building and turned Fenris' stomach. He felt sick.

Soon enough, the stable boy brought the horses around and Fenris' companions appeared, bright-eyed and ready for travel. Anders looked toward Fenris, his expression curious, and Fenris avoided his gaze. He didn't want to see the bloom of colour on the man's cheeks or the way he swaggered into his saddle.

The morning never fully dried out and the party rode through intermittent drizzles. That suited Fenris' mood just fine; he glowered out at the world from under sodden white hair. Anders, that arrogant abomination, was in his prime. He cast ice spells and fire spells with wild abandon, entertaining the Orlesian with intricate, frozen images made entirely with mist, hanging in the air like visions from other worlds. Lightning streaked across the dark underbellies of the clouds at his command, illuminating the shrouded landscape in bright purple, white and red flashes. She squealed and clapped and urged him on to greater shows of his cursed hubris.

The Warden interfered only once, while their party was passing another group of travellers. "It may not be wise to attract attention," he said mildly when the covered wagons came into view.

"How could you say such a thing?" asked the Orlesian. "Anders deserves no less than their admiration. They will tremble at our passing," she added to the mage.

Anders chuckled. "You have my thanks, dove, but my companion is correct." He reached out and tugged her white, oiled leather hood further down to cover her hair. "I much prefer a private showing, anyway."

Fenris felt like throwing up. He shook, whether from anger or from the cold that leached into his clothes and skin, he did not know.

Because of the rain, they didn't stop for lunch, but ate in their saddles instead. Fenris was grateful; this way the Warden wouldn't notice that Fenris didn't bother to eat at all. The dark elf's head hung down, heavy with misery, nodding along with the steps of his mount. He almost dozed, his attention wandering back to the past, to times when the rain was a chance to stop and huddle in some small dry, warm space with Hawke. His awareness dwindled to the bobbing neck of his horse and the sound of hooves on the damp stone, its rhythm like a heart beat.

"Oh, Maker." The voice roused him more than the hand on his arm. He blinked drowsily at the face of the Warden, at Fenris' knee, turned up and wet with rain. The man looked concerned. "Fenris? Can you hear me?"

"Yes." Of course he could. Not that he wanted to. He'd been sleeping, lulled by the motion of his mount. His eyes fell closed again, blocking out the sudden flare of lantern light.

"Fenris?" the Warden said, shaking the Tevinter's arm more insistently. "We're there. Can you dismount?"

Didn't they just set out? How could they be at the next inn already? Fenris squinted, shocked by how dark the sky was, even through the rain, surprised by the bulk of walls and building illuminated by the lanterns posted by a great double door.

"Come on."

Fenris nodded and obeyed, leaning and preparing to swing his leg over and dismount. His arms and legs, though, did not obey. They felt stiff and heavy, and his hands didn't tell him what they were doing. He slipped sideways.

The Warden grunted as he caught the Tevinter, and then swore. "Maker's balls, Fenris, you're heavier than you look."

Fenris almost smiled. Hawke used to say that.

"Lad! A little help, if you would?" Fenris could feel the Warden's grip, both arms cinched around the dark elf's chest, slipping. Then another pair of hands joined and the Warden levered Fenris arm around his shoulders. "All right, come on, one foot in front of the other, you've done this before."

They hobbled into the inn and out of the rain. Fenris winced as hot air blasted him, sank in and abolished whatever strength he had left. Without the Warden, he would have dropped to the floor. Even with the Warden, it was a close call.

"Too much to drink?" asked an unfamiliar girl's voice. Fenris couldn't even open his eyes to look. His head lolled on his neck, making every attempt to fall right off.

"Not enough," the Warden joked. "We'll need another room. Private, please. Bring up a tub and some water, if you would. Don't worry, I've got the coin."

Somehow, the Warden dragged and cajoled Fenris through a noisy and smoky room, up an endless flight of stairs, and finally into a dark and quiet place. He let the Tevinter fall onto a chair, off of which Fenris promptly slid and curled up on the wooden floor.

"Maker's balls," the Warden swore again. "What did you do to yourself? You're a grown man, Fenris, not a thirteen-year-old sheep girl."

"I didn't do anything," Fenris slurred. He pushed himself up and found the wall with his back. With effort, he opened his eyes and focused on the Warden. The red-haired elf was busy at the small room's one table, lighting a lamp and frowning his disgust.

"For all that you and that daft mage are willing to tear your throats out about your burgeoning love for Hawke, you're both doing your absolute best to ruin your own rescue." The Warden's golden eyes flashed in his anger. "You don't eat, you don't sleep, you slink around like a dog with his tail between his legs, and then you spend a day in the rain with no more protection than skin-tight black hide and a gloomy disposition?" His voice rose as he ranted. Then he rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Maker's giant, hairy balls, I should just leave you both here and get the Champion myself. Zevran would probably thank me."

Fenris cringed. "Hawke would, too," he agreed dismally, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall.

There was a span of silence. Then, "I have never wanted to slap someone as much as I want to slap you right now. And I know Alistair."

"I deserve it."

A knock on the door saved the Warden from answering. "Thank the Maker," he exhaled and went to answer.

Several of the inn's servants dragged in a small brass tub and set it on the stone alcove in one corner of the room and filled it with buckets of steaming hot water. When they departed, the Warden approached and loomed over Fenris' hunched figure.

"Get in the tub, Fenris," he ordered. "If you don't do it yourself, then I'm going to have to see you naked, and no one wants that."

Under the Warden's watchful glare, Fenris carefully made it to his feet. He felt stiff and aching, like he had aged eighty years in one long day. Using the wall to support him, he started to unbuckle his breastplate and remove his gloves. When he was down to the snug, flexible under-armour, the Warden finally departed, muttering something about getting Fenris a very greasy meal.

Alone, Fenris couldn't continue. He was so tired and he could justify none of this. The Warden was right; Hawke didn't want someone like Fenris. Someone so weak and stupid and caught up in his own misery. Hawke needed another spirit like his own, bright and courageous, lusty for life and love. He curled up on the bed, back to the door, still wet and cold and beyond shivering.

"Fenris?" It was Anders' voice and knock this time. Fenris couldn't remember the last time the man had addressed the Tevinter elf directly. Surely, it was before they met the Orlesian maid. "Are you in there? The Warden said you aren't feeling well. Are you ill?"

When there was no answer, the mage simply opened the door.

"Fenris? Are you... sleeping?" Anders sounded unusually tentative. "I should... I should go, shouldn't I?"

He didn't, though. One slow step after another, the mage drew near and came to the end of Fenris' bed. The elf saw him in the edge of his vision, but didn't move, didn't even look. He wasn't sure he could.

"You're angry," Anders said. "Silent angry. That's a bad sign. What did I do this time?" He came around in front of Fenris and frowned down at the elf. "Well? Are you just going to ignore me? The least you could do is swear."

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut.

"Come on—Andraste's lacy underthings, you're freezing!" Anders had gone to shake Fenris' shoulder, but now his broad hands moved with clinical speed over the elf's forehead, neck and wrists. "What did you do? You don't believe in suicide, remember?"

_I'm such a failure._

"Here, just, I need your help, elf, I can't rescue Hawke without you." Anders pulled with surprising strength at Fenris' tightly curled arms.

"That's not what you said before," Fenris mumbled.

"Well, I was wrong. Without you I get stabbed by things and bleed a lot and you're cheaper than a mercenary." When Fenris didn't respond, the mage made a noise of frustration. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. I can't do this alone. I need someone I can trust. I need _you_, Fenris." He sounded pained.

Hawke's voice echoed in Fenris' mind. _'I need you, Fenris.' _

Slowly, so slowly, Fenris roused himself. For the first time in days, he looked at Anders, at the mage's worried expression. "You won't settle down with your Orlesian maiden?" he asked dryly.

Anders blinked. Then he laughed, the tone of it just slightly desperate. "Oh, Maker, no. I can't wait to be rid of her. Keeping her away from you and the Warden is killing me."

_I'm an idiot._ This wasn't the first time Fenris had come to this conclusion, but it was one of the more painful occasions.

"Though I suppose it has a few rewards," the mage added thoughtfully. "Usually when she can't talk."

Fenris winced, feeling a stab deep in his belly.

Anders noticed, but misconstrued the cause. "Sorry. You probably don't want to know about that part. Squishy girl bits and all that." He tugged on the elf's arms again. "Come on. Into the water with you. Hawke will never forgive me if I... if I let something happen to you." He said that last part with a strange, sad note, and glanced away guiltily.

"How many people can you lust after at a time?" There was no heat to his words. Fenris allowed the healer to help him up and over to the water. Then, instead of disrobing under Anders' eye, he simply stepped in with his clothes on. Though it was no longer steaming hot, the temperature difference was so vast from his skin, especially on his bare feet, that he hissed at it.

"Easy. Just take it slow."

"I'm not a child, abomination," the elf sighed.

"And I can lust after all of the people, of course. Or at least the pretty ones. I come from a Fereldan circle, remember? Everyone was kissing everyone."

"Ugh," Fenris replied, combination of disgust and discomfort. "Are Fereldan mages better or worse than Antivan Crows?"

"I don't know... Give me a couple more weeks with the Warden and he'll tell you."

"Maker help me." With a groan, Fenris settled into the bottom of the tub. The water lapped at his pointed chin. He closed his eyes tightly as he adjusted to the temperature. When he opened them, Anders was staring at him intently. "I have no interest in your twisted Fereldan fantasies."

The mage's lip twitched. "Are you going to tell me why a powerful warrior like yourself froze half to death in a summer shower?"

"No."

"Well, my first fantasy involves Hawke, Merrill, myself, two nugs and about twenty feet of purple ribbon."

Fenris stared, horrified. "Anders!"

The mage smirked. "You can't tell me you haven't thought about it." He reached out and dipped a finger in the water. "This should be warmer." His hand started to glow.

"No!" Without thinking, Fenris lashed out and punched the mage in his square jaw.

Anders fell back, hit the table and crumpled to the floor in a heap of damp robes. Fenris watched him, equal parts angry and worried, and felt some relief when the mage stirred and rubbed his chin, staring up at the ceiling.

"I suppose I deserved that." Green light limned his chin and fingers. Then he sat up, head moving side-to-side as he stretched his neck. "Like provoking a beast." His gaze hardened when he regarded Fenris. "No magic, right?"

"That's right."

Anders licked his lips and nodded. "Well, you seem to be in good health, despite your incomprehensible desire to die of exposure. I'll tell the Warden." He stood, brushed himself off, and left.

Fenris growled to himself and wiped his face with wet hands. He could move and think properly now, for all that that helped. Looking back on the last few days, he felt like kicking himself across Nevarra. He owed the Warden a rather large apology and several drinks for putting up with the distraught Tevinter elf.

_Soon enough we'll be in Nevarra City and free of the girl._ After that were the Silent Plains and then Tevinter, which would bring a slew of other problems. _I can't do this again._ He formed a fist, steeling himself. _I can't be weak. I must stay strong or else Hawke is lost. _

So thinking, he met the Warden when the man knocked, devoured everything given to him, and slept deeply through the night.

/.\./.\

The rain had passed on by morning, swept away across the rolling hills, and a bright sun shone down on a well-washed world. Fenris felt alert for the first time in days, and unmoved by the Orlesian maiden's poor treatment of himself and the Warden. He realized, with a jolt, that she reminded him of a young Tevinter Magister. It was little wonder, then, that he had felt haunted since they acquired her. Memories he was barely aware of were churning under the surface of his mind. Worse, still, that Anders acted the doting lover toward her, though Fenris was still trying to figure out why it distressed him _that_ much.

This morning as they rode, instead of ignoring the elves, Anders tried to bring them into his conversations with the Orlesian. When her participation shrank, her disgust clear, she became a silent observer to the group's normal interactions, a small frown upon her face.

"These hills are just riddled with caves and passages," the Warden explained to the attentive mage. "They used to be full of dragons and other things. Some say that a wealth equal to the current Tevinter Empire's could be found here, unclaimed, lost underground."

"They say that about every empty field," Anders commented. "Can't anyone come up with a better story? I, for one, would love caves full of kittens."

"You would," Fenris muttered.

"Serah," the Orlesian interrupted. "Anders, is that a cave over there?"

Anders peered where she was pointing and nodded. "It certainly is, dear lady. With some stonework around the entrance."

The Warden, with his sharp elven eyes, shook his head. "It looks like it's mostly caved in. Abandoned."

"Oh, can't we go see? Please, serah?" She squirmed. "Look, there is a path through the grass. Surely we have the time? I have been trapped in a city all my life."

"Not a good idea," the Warden said. "There could be any number of things in there, treasure being at the bottom of the list, spiders and corpses near the top."

"I am not afraid of spiders!" she exclaimed heatedly.

"You don't have to be afraid of them for them to kill you," Fenris interjected.

She scowled at the elves and then turned wide, fluttering eyes on Anders. "Please, serah? I know you would protect me. I just want to see-"

"I'm sorry, dear lady, but my friends are correct. It's too dangerous. Besides, we need to get you to the city before they send the guard after us."

Marilyn opened her red-lipped mouth to make another plea. Then she stopped and nodded. "Yes, serah, you are correct, of course."

Anders smiled slightly. "Isn't this adventure enough, dear lady? Do your peers often travel with renegade mages, elven warriors and fabled mabari hounds?"

"No," she replied meekly.

Fenris eyed her, not quite trusting the sudden reversal. Anders didn't seem to think it odd, though, and he had more experience with young human women.

Apparently not enough experience, though. As they came upon the path that Marilyn had pointed out, she suddenly lashed her horse and urged it up the gentle, scrubby hill.

Anders swore and wrenched his mount's head around, trying to turn and follow, but the beast didn't appreciate the rough treatment and started dancing around. Fenris' horse reared and bucked when Anders' slammed into it, and it took a steady hand to calm it. The Warden, with the two pack horses tied to his saddle, couldn't manoeuvre around the other two.

By the time they got themselves sorted out, the girl was already halfway to the cave. Fenris went first, rising in the stirrups and hunching over his mount's neck to help it up the hill, but he couldn't urge it to any great speed for fear of it stumbling on the uneven ground. More likely than not, Marilyn in her recklessness would cause her horse to break a leg and break her own neck in the fall.

"Maker, no," Anders moaned when they reached the cave. Marilyn's white mare was there, breathing heavily and nosing at some ferns growing out of the crumbling masonry around the entrance. Marilyn was nowhere to be seen. The mage slid out of the saddle and sprinted for the crumbling hole in the low hill.

"Anders!" Fenris hollered. The mage was going to get himself killed running headlong into danger. That was Fenris' job. The elf activated the lyrium and ghosted partially into the Fade, hoping that would help him not start a cave in. Then, axe at the ready, he followed.

He found Anders easily enough; the man was on the ground being mauled by bear. With a silent apology for the bear-it hadn't asked them to invade its home-he shattered its skull. A great gout of blood followed his swing, spattering the walls and the mage, and the bear collapsed sideways.

Anders stood, coughing and pressing a glowing hand to his chest. "That was unexpected," he said.

"No it wasn't," Fenris replied sharply. "You're an idiot."

"Yes, I know, thank-you."

The mabari raced by, nearly bowling them over, and disappeared through another dark doorway, headed deeper underground. They ran after him, Anders hastily casting protective spells on himself.

The uneven passageway, hazardous with pools of water and thick tree roots, led them to a small room with two other doors, both closed. Dog scratched and whined at one of them, but it failed to open when they tried it. When the Warden finally caught up to them, muttering about tying up the horses, he examined the door and declared that it was un-pickable, and probably controlled by a mechanism on the other side.

The other door slid open with the impression of a stone panel, grinding faintly. "We'll just have to hope this one leads to the same place," said the Warden.

"Don't they usually?" Anders commented. "All these places have the same architect."

They allowed the Warden to precede them, his golden eyes wide and wary and hunting for traps. Dog kept to his heel, unusually quiet. Anders followed and continued casting spells to protect the Warden and the mabari, and Fenris noticed that he carefully did not cast any on the Tevinter.

Fenris padded silently behind them, keeping one eye to their rear.

"Fenris," Anders whispered.

"Hn?"

"I bet you five sovereigns that we find a demon. Ten if it's a pride demon."

Fenris, already aware of the faint skittering of spiders, readily agreed. "I'll take it."

"And you can't borrow the money from Hawke."

"...Bastard."

The next room was half collapsed, with a gaping black hole in the masonry leading into a damp cavern. Out of that hole boiled a a small army of giant spiders. Gloating, Fenris sprang forward.

"Hold!" the Warden shouted, going to one knee and fiddling with something on the ground.

Force of habit made Fenris freeze, as much as he wanted to leap into the fray. Two spiders came at him, their legs a blur of motion, and he turned them into sticky green goo. Bolts of spirit energy flew past him and unerringly struck more of the arachnids.

Finally, the Warden hopped to his feet and unsheathed his own long sword and dagger. He grinned fiendishly at his companions. "Move freely, my friends."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimers**: Random fighting, gore, pining and Orlesians.

**Author's Note**: I'm not sure if you can tell, but I'm having way, WAY too much fun with this fic. Seriously.

This chapter dedicated to the two reviewers who totally made my night. I don't think I'd have as much fun if I couldn't share this with you. :)

And never fear... The explicit Fenders is coming... Soon, soon... *strums fingers together*

**Random Trivia:** I was at a Wax Museum that talked about an old French barracks, and they showed that the beds the soldiers slept on were just slanted boards with a blanket and a pillow, on which the men slept side-by-side; they thought this kept the soldiers' backs straighter. Thus the inclusion of that little tidbit. ...This will make more sense when you've read through this section.

**Disclaimer**: Aren't they pretty? I wish they were mine...

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Nine**

After three batches of spiders and a room full of skeletons under the control of some lingering curse, Anders was beginning to think that he would lose his five sovereigns after all. His experiences with blood mages in and around Kirkwall had led him to believe that demons lurked in every shadow. He was as bad as Meredith. He didn't mind overly much, though. Varric had once confided that Fenris had a considerable gambling compulsion; Anders would get his money back.

Unlike the surprise battle in the Cumberland tavern and the dirty magic of the blood mages, these hidden dungeons were good, clean fun. Well, apart from the gore. There were no conflicted feelings, no concerns for repercussions. They had a damsel to rescue and evil creatures to wade through to get her.

Of course, it was mostly her fault that she needed rescuing. Not that Anders had helped. He should have known she would force the issue. She was Orlesian, and thus convinced that she had right of way in all things. After making her sleep alone, and then practically shunning her on the journey, it was little wonder she had run off.

"Sarcophagi!" the Warden exclaimed, stopping to look at a niche with its elaborate carvings in the wall of their current passage. "I love sarcophagi. That's where people put all of their best stuff." He reached inside and rummaged around.

"You know, it's almost like we didn't lose Hawke," Anders commented in an under tone to Fenris.

"Don't say that," the Tevinter replied, but without the hostility Anders had come to expect. After his little temper tantrum, he seemed to have calmed considerably, regaining his stoic... stoic-ness. He was more like his old self, running hellbent into battle, so fast that the rest of them could barely keep up.

"I'm just saying," Anders said, raising his voice, "that the Warden's fingers are as sticky as the Champion's."

"What are you implying?" the Warden asked, his tone hurt. He turned, seventeen dusty amulets clattering on his chest.

Fenris sighed.

They finally found the underground complex's main room, a wide round chamber with some grotesquerie carved out of stone in the centre. And there was the Orlesian maid, sitting on a toppled column, laughing her tinkling laugh at their expense.

"Hasn't this been fun?" she asked. "Oh my, you are all so _bloody_."

Anders scratched some of the dried bear blood flaking off of his forehead. Some of it had gotten into his mouth; it would serve her right if he kissed her.

Fenris paced into the room, ignoring the girl and looking around. "No demon," he said over his shoulder and smirking.

"A demon?" Marilyn exclaimed. "Maker, no! I have been perfectly safe in here. And I am ready to leave!" She hopped to her dainty feet and ran to Anders' side. "Come, serah, let us leave this dank place."

"Wait," the Warden said, glancing to the side. "I think Dog found something. Looks like more sarcophagi." He rubbed his gloved hands together gleefully and trotted to where Dog was sniffing and scratching at a stone tomb, tucked innocuously against a wall.

"Here we go," Fenris said, rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

"Can't we leave him?" Marilyn asked with a moue of distress. "I think there is cobwebs. In my hair, even! I would like some sunlight and fresh air."

"He'll just be a moment, dear lady," Anders assured her, exasperated.

"Ooh!" she exclaimed. She shoved herself away from the mage and went to the Tevinter elf. "Surely one such as you has no wish to stay. Will you take me to the surface, serah?"

Fenris' strong, dark brows shot up. "One such as me?" he repeated.

Anders laughed. "Brooding, psychotic, violent, attractively tattooed? Take your pick."

"Attractively tattooed?"

"What are you, a parrot?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the loud grind of stone on stone, followed by a short shout of excitement, followed in turn by a very quiet, "Uh oh."

"Uh oh?" Anders turned to see what the Warden was doing.

"I found Marilyn," the Warden reported.

Something very heavy slammed into Anders from behind, knocking him into the ugly statue. He lay for a moment, stunned, ears ringing and sight fuzzy, and finally rolled onto his hands and knees and pushed himself up. Too dazed to concentrate, he had to clear his head with a potion before he could figure out what was going on.

The Marilyn they had spoken to was, in reality, a desire demon. She cackled and cast various and sundry spells on Fenris and Dog as they attacked her. Fenris, Anders noticed, was hit especially hard by these, and he itched to buff the elf with some kind of protection. But Fenris had made it violently clear that he did not wish it.

The Warden, his weapons a blur, danced around three shades and a rage demon, somehow avoiding their attacks and keeping them occupied.

The rage demon, a creature of fire, shattered from an ice spell. The desire demon, vulnerable to fire, screamed when Anders launched a fireball at her. Her revenge was enacted on Fenris and Dog, as she caught them both in some kind of paralytic field. She wasn't able to take much advantage of it, though, as a stone fist knocked her back and then she writhed in the grip of an electric attack. When the spell was exhausted, she crouched, panting, on the floor and stared up at her four enemies.

"I can... give you anything... you want," she gasped.

For some reason, Anders looked to Fenris. He was surprised by the contemplative expression on the elf's face. He remembered his own experiences with mages, _good_ mages, who had turned to blood magic and demon worship out of desperation. _There is always something_, he thought, _that will take us to the brink._

"You already did," Anders replied for them all. "You helped me win a bet." One bolt of spirit energy, amplified and directed by his staff, sent her shrieking back into the Fade.

Fenris shook his head, as though clearing it. He didn't look entirely happy.

Anders went to the sarcophagus and found Marilyn unconscious, but unharmed. The sight of her made him smile; it wasn't a normal person who could avoid possession after stumbling into a demon's den. For all her faults, she probably had a spirit made of ironwood. He scooped her up and, with the two elves and the mabari, made his way out of the complex and into the bright light of midday.

/.\./.\

Marilyn didn't remember much of her misadventure, which was probably for the best, but she did remember her supposed ill-treatment by her dear Anders. She was cold to him for the rest of their ride to the inn. There, when he didn't agree to come to her rooms, she stormed away in a white, fluttering huff.

"One of us should watch her door," the Warden commented without looking up. He and Fenris were playing a game, their nimble fingers flicking cards on the four piles with unerring accuracy.

"Anders," said Fenris.

"Warden," said Anders.

"Dog," said the Warden.

The mabari whined.

"It's only two more nights," Anders protested. "What's the worst that could happen?"

The elves turned to him, golden and green eyes narrowed.

"The Warden got us the job and I think I've done most of the lady-sitting on this trip," the mage added.

"With all the benefits that entails," Fenris said, frowning.

"I'll do it," the Warden sighed. "Dog and I will watch that she doesn't try to find adventure during the night. You two can just relax and make fun of me behind my back or something." He tossed down the last of his hand. "And I lost the game, too. Lovely. Well, you two enjoy yourselves and have some drinks. It's on me." He indicated the pile of Fenris' winnings and strode away, whistling for Dog to follow.

Anders slid into the Warden's seat. "You still owe me, elf," he smirked. "You want to start with some wine?"

Fenris rolled his eyes, but lifted a hand to summon a server. While they waited, the elf shuffled his cards, the gilt on their edges flashing in the lantern light. Anders leaned back and watched, drowsy and mesmerized.

"Would a demon help us against Danarius?" the elf asked his flickering cards.

Anders struggled not to show his surprise. He thought for a long moment and then answered seriously. "I'm sure it would. But it wouldn't be worth it."

Fenris' hands stilled. Anders blinked and looked up, meeting the elf's glare. "Hawke is worth anything."

The mage swallowed at the intensity in the other man's voice. "I know he is," he said a little hoarsely. "But I think it would kill him. Not to be saved by a demon, but to know you went to one for help." He licked his lips and tried to smile. "Bad enough you're working with an abomination."

The elf snorted and resumed his shuffling. "His abomination," he said very quietly. Then, louder, "You're right. It isn't an option."

Their wine came, a bottle of smooth, dark luxury, and they enjoyed it in companionable silence, each sunk in their own thoughts. Fenris was probably pining over Hawke. Anders was contemplating the elf. Marilyn had been a pleasant distraction for all of two days, until the Warden had come along and demanded that he look after Fenris. After that, after seeing the elf in such a deep pit of despair and somehow dragging him out of it, Anders' interest in the Orlesian maiden had diminished to his interest in pretty, but noxious flowers. He would look at her, but from the other side of the garden. Upwind.

Unfortunately, without that distraction he was back to his concern for Hawke and the plan that he had set in motion in Cumberland. Every moment he spent with Fenris was another reminder and another guilty twinge.

Suddenly, he wanted to do something for the Tevinter elf. He reached out and touched Fenris' arm, probably asking for another clock to the jaw, but feeling impulsive. The elf was warm, and Anders felt the faint tremor of the lyrium that coursed through Fenris' skin. He drew back before he lost his fingers. Strangely, Fenris didn't look like he was about to bite; he looked wary, but not immediately hostile. "We're going to find him," Anders said firmly.

Fenris nodded once. "I know we will. Though I worry about what we'll find." His eyes fell and he frowned slightly.

There wasn't much that Anders could say to that. There was no telling what the Tevinter Magister was capable of, and what he would do with the Free Marches' most powerful man. He tried not to think about it, or about what he would do if Hawke was lost for good. Without the knowledge that Hawke was out there in the world, righting wrongs and supporting the scrappy underdogs, could Anders go on? Could Fenris, for that matter? In the past few weeks, Anders had watched Fenris go from homicidal to suicidal, touching everywhere in between. If they couldn't retrieve the Champion, what would happen to the elf?

_He would die_. Anders didn't even need to think about it. It was a fact that had been establishing itself in his mind since he found the elf in that dark little gulley, the sounds of his pursuers drawing ever nearer. He watched that bowed white head, a feeling of wonder growing inside him. _Not by his own hand, but if Hawke falls, Fenris will be close behind._

Guilt plagued him more strongly, making him feel ill. Part of him wished he had never learned so much about the elf. He didn't have the grounds to hate Fenris anymore. Instead, he admired the quiet, single-minded devotion. The elf was nearly fanatical, beneath that recalcitrance. Mixed with the admiration, too, was a quiet, wistful longing that someone would feel that way about him. Hawke came close, but he didn't have the intensity. Anders thought that he, himself, was a loyal man, but compared to Fenris he was positively frivolous. As much as he loved the Champion, as much as he would die for him, he was still affectionate toward others. But Fenris lived and breathed for one man.

_And you're going to take him away._

Was that Justice, or his own conscience? No, Justice believed that this was the right thing to do. That was Anders' heart, speaking its quiet recrimination.

"Maker preserve us," he forced himself to say. "What a pair we are." He hastily drained his glass and shoved himself away from the table. "If I don't go to bed now, I'm going to challenge you to a brooding race." The joke felt very flat, very hollow. Before he could say anything worse, he left the elf behind.

They had a single room in the attic, with three narrow beds. The Warden would be on the second floor, guarding Marilyn's door, which left Anders alone until Fenris joined him.

Anders paused in disrobing, rolling that thought around in his head. Fenris... was going to join him. They were going to be alone. Granted, they weren't exactly sleeping together, but they would be together in the same room. Sleeping. Alone.

The mage shivered, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. It was, however, frightening in the way that he did not want to go down that garden path, not now, not with the elf. Fenris would probably cut him in two if Anders even _implied_ anything in that general vicinity of thought. Or, if he didn't, Anders' own conscience would do the job for him.

With that in mind, Anders kept his clothing, other than the feathered coat, in place. Then he wrapped up in the blankets for good measure. Concentrating all of his mental energies, he forced himself to sleep before Fenris could come up to their room. He almost wished he could be having meaningless sex with an Orlesian woman, instead of spending a suddenly awkward night with the elf.

Almost.

/.\./.\

Fenris was already gone when Anders dragged himself out of slumber's grip. He had once been investigated for possession by a sloth demon when he was a teenager, but it turned out that he just really liked to sleep. The only reason Anders knew the elf had been in the room at all was that the lamp had been blown out instead of just running out of fuel.

He met the two elves in the common room. The Warden seemed well enough and reported that Marilyn hadn't emerged from her room at all during the night. "I owe Dog some crunches, though," he admitted. "I think I fell asleep on him at some point."

"At least we can trust him to keep watch," Fenris said wryly.

_He has a very nice voice_, Anders thought absently as he spooned honey into his breakfast. _Very dark. Very dramatic. He could make a grimoire sound interesting._ Then he paused, mid-swallow, as he realized what he had just been thinking. He forced the mouthful the rest of the way down to sit heavy in his stomach. Without meaning to, he looked up at the elf.

Fenris was staring at him. "You were talking in your sleep, abomination."

_Uh oh._

_That's bad._

"Did he summon anything?" the Warden asked curiously. "Whenever Zevran talks in his sleep, it's a list of poison ingredients. I think he dreams about his Crow training."

"I couldn't make out most of it," Fenris said. He smirked, as though perfectly aware of how uncomfortable he was making the mage. "Mostly just noises, I think. Like you were fighting."

"Ah," Anders said very calmly. "That's why I was all tangled when I woke up."

Marilyn announced herself with a very unladylike step down the inn's stairs. She looked quite different from the enchanting maiden that she had first appeared. Anders barely saw any make-up on her face at all, and the artful arrangement of her dress and scarf were in less-than-artful disarray. Apparently, without his attentions to vie for, she had no reason to attend to her appearance.

"Good morning, dear lady," Anders greeted her genially, standing to pull out a chair for her. He could be charming for a few more days.

She ignored him completely, breezing by to take a seat at another table.

The elves started laughing. Anders was caught between a flush of embarrassment and laughing himself. He resumed his seat, chuckling and shaking his head.

"And there, my friends," said the Warden, "goes the romance of the age."

They left the Imperial Highway shortly after departing from the inn, headed west toward Nevarra City. Here they were joined by other travellers from the south and also from the north, the bridge that crossed the mighty Minanter River. Some of the other riders and foot traffic looked at the small group with interest, noting the two elves, the mage and the fine Orlesian woman.

Apart from the change in the road's surface and the people they passed, the day's ride was quiet and uneventful. Anders was starting to get calluses in rather intimate places, but otherwise he had no complaints. The day was intermittently sunny and overcast, so that Anders took turns sweating and shivering. As they had moved north, he noticed that the air was getting dryer and the difference between hot and cold was becoming more extreme. Marilyn maintained her silence, even when they stopped for lunch in a tidy, well-used camp site. Anders heated her food for her and offered it on a clean white napkin. She took it without even looking at him.

Over dinner at a rather small and noisily crowded establishment, the Warden offered the happy news, "If we leave early and ride hard, we'll be in Nevarra City by tomorrow evening."

"A day early?" asked Marilyn, possibly forgetting that she wasn't on speaking terms with her escort. If it wasn't that the common room was full, she wouldn't have even been sharing their table "I don't want to be there early! Once I get into Lord Fawnley's household, I will have no freedom at all!"

The Warden cocked his head. "You have my deepest sympathies, Miss de Montrouge, but there is little to do out here. Wouldn't you rather get to the city as soon as possible?"

"I want to explore," she responded heatedly, her unpainted eyes lighting up.

"You explored Anders," Fenris commented.

"How dare you, you dirty knife-ear!" She rounded on Anders. "Will you allow him to speak to me like that?"

Anders lifted his brows. "No one allows Fenris to do anything."

"But he is your servant, is he not?"

The mage snorted. "Does it look like I want an early and violent death? No, he's my friend."

"What man are you?" she accused. "To call these animals friends?" She gathered her dress and, as had become her habit, stormed off.

"A very fortunate man," Anders answered her retreating back. He turned to his companions. "One day, you said? It won't be soon enough."

To their surprise, Marilyn returned to the common room not long after, dressed in her best skirts and painted like a Hightown harlot. Anders watched her flounce over to one of the other tables and groaned. She had chosen a table of some kind of well-armed Nevarrans; either crown military or mercenaries, he couldn't tell. They looked like hard men, though, and they had wolf grins when Marilyn squeezed her way among them.

"This is not going to end well," Fenris predicted.

"I think it will be fun," the Warden said with his usual good cheer. "Look at those weapons. Just imagine how much we'll be able to sell them for."

"Do you ever think about anything else?" Anders snapped, unamused.

"Yes, but it involves Crows."

"If we let anything happen to that girl, there will be crows all right, picking at our corpses."

"You'd make a lovely corpse, Anders."

"Shut up, Warden."

As they bickered, Marilyn made her way around the soldiers' table, joining them in drinks and laughter. Her scarf was slipping, releasing that long, soft brown hair. Some of the men grabbed at her, holding her on their knees. When one started to whisper into the pale, perfect round shell of her ear, Anders finally stood.

"This has to stop." They weren't too badly outnumbered, and it was entirely possible that the men wouldn't start a fight in the middle of the inn. So Anders took his chances. He straightened his coat and strode over. "Excuse me, serahs," he began politely. Marilyn's dark eye slid in his direction and slid away and she sipped something one of the men handed her. No one else even noticed. "Excuse me!" he repeated loudly and thumped his staff on the floor.

He was tempted, very tempted, to cast something to get their attention. However, long practice of hiding his gifts made him leery of casting in the middle of a crowded common room in an unfamiliar country.

Fenris chose that moment to intervene. He took the simple expedient of pushing between two of the soldiers and stepping onto the table. His bare feet moved like a dancer's, picking his way between cups, plates, knives, cards, and sundry other items. The men sitting around the table seemed stunned, perhaps wondering if they were imagining that a dark-skinned, white-haired, tattooed and axe-bearing elf had just walked by. He stopped in front of Marilyn. The girl's face was screwed into an expression of outrage as she stared up at the man.

"Marilyn de Montrouge," he said, low voiced. "What would your mother think?"

All at once, the ten or so men leapt up to grab the elf. Fenris uttered one of his rare laughs and jumped away. None of them drew a weapon, so Anders didn't feel justified using either magic or his staff, but he quite happily entered the fray with only his fists.

Before the inn's management was able to put a stop to it, the brawl spread across the room like another Blight. Soon enough, men and women roared and fought, overturning tables, breaking chairs and clocking each other with their heavy tankards. Anders received several blows about the head and shoulders, got a chair leg to the sternum, and finally made his retreat when someone's armoured boot got a bit too close to his rod of fire for his comfort. He ducked through the doorway to the stairs after one of the inn's more muscular employees, probably a stable hand, checked to ensure that Anders was a paying guest. Safely behind the man, the mage paused to look out into the chaos. Neither of the elves were visible, and he hoped that they had made it out instead of ending up crushed on the floor.

His exit was well-timed. As he watched, a troop of uniformed Nevarran highway patrol marched in and started throwing people out, including the soldiers with whom Marilyn had gotten so close.

Nursing a split lip and chuckling to himself, Anders climbed the stairs to the second floor. There he found the Warden and Dog in the hallway, seated together across from a door and looking as though they had been there all evening. The Warden lifted a hand in a wave. Anders moved on.

_Better him than me_, the mage thought. The next time he saw Marilyn, it would be difficult not to slap her.

The third floor was cramped, hot, and noisy with the wealth of humanity crammed into the rooms. Anders was getting tired of sleeping in attics and servants' dormitories; he would be very glad when they could travel on their own terms again.

Their room was one of the many narrow doors. He eyed them dubiously, noticing just how close together the rooms were. This didn't bode well for the amount of space he and Fenris would have to share. When he entered, his fears were verified; there wasn't even a bed, just a slanted board that took up most of the floor space and some blankets.

Fenris was already there, curled on his side with his head pillowed on a bent arm. The elf shook back some white hair and nodded a greeting before settling back down.

"You enjoyed that too much," Anders commented while he stripped away his feathered overcoat. He was still full of battle lust, his mind's eye going over the highlights of the brawl. "You've got dragonbone balls, my friend."

Fenris snorted. "Speak for yourself. I was just going to get the girl out. You threw the first punch and then called the man a 'pustule-sucking degenerate.'"

Anders blew out their candle and grinned into the sudden darkness. "Yeah, I did."

"I don't think he knows what a pustule or a degenerate are."

"I got my point across." The mage shoved his blankets into a crude pillow and lay on his back with his head raised and cradled in his stinging hands. For the moment, he was comfortable and full of endorphins, but he knew he would be aching in the morning. "Andraste's rosy kneecaps, it's been a long time." He sighed happily and watched the ceiling define itself in the bits of light that trickled in through their tiny window.

Slowly, his body cooled off and the bruises made themselves known. Anders savoured each of them. He had to heal himself so often than sometimes he forgot what real, throbbing pain was like. This was a natural, tolerable pain, the result of a good fight. And a good fight, like good sex, was worth the bruises.

_That was the wrong thought_, he decided very quickly. _Would Fenris notice if I cast an ice spell on myself?_

His body said something unintelligible, but insistent.

_All right, let's not think about Fenris and sex in the same sentence again._

_...Shit._

The elf's breath was faint. If he had been human, Anders would have been concerned, but he was an elf and they followed their own rules. That breath was regular, though, so he was probably asleep. Or so Anders hoped. The only thing worse than lusting after one's sleeping rival was lusting after one's awake rival while lying next to each other in the dark.

_Maker, what would Hawke think?_

That just led to a lot more very wrong places.

_All right, think about Marilyn. That should put your fire out._

However, that thought led to his fond memory of Fenris' audacity and graceful, assured step. From Anders' vantage, he had gotten a nice view of the elf's legs.

Anders sucked on his lower lip, prodding the split with his tongue and tasting the blood and sweat. He hoped that it would ease his discomfort, but it just seemed to make it worse.

Finally, he grumbled and rolled over, away from his companion. Eyes squeezed shut and focused, he started to force himself to sleep.

Then the door clicked open and closed as Fenris exited the room. Anders hadn't even heard the elf rise from their boards. That should have made things easier, but it didn't. Anders' misplaced lust was replaced by Anders' confused dejection.

_Now who's a degenerate?_ he wondered before finally drifting off.

He woke again, not as the Warden and his stinking hound entered the room, but as they were leaving, apparently having slept the night next to Anders without the mage noticing. He immediately sat up to check his boots and belt, knowing the canine liked to chew on leather, and groaned as his limbs and chest protested the movement.

_This is going to be a fun day._


	10. Chapter 10

**Warnings**: None. Well, my own poor sense of humour. And boring plot stuff. And angst, because that is what I love.

**Author's Note**: Onward to the next leg of our adventure! This leg has dwarves. And sand. And dragons. And more sand. Um. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: This part and the next two are, quite literally, me playing in someone else's sand box.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Ten**

Fenris had to admit that the Warden hadn't made an entirely bad decision when he turned the three adventurers into lady-sitters, but he would be very glad when it was over. They were within sight of the dark glitter of the Minanter River, so they were close to Nevarra City. Soon, they would be rid of the girl and free to catch passage on a river boat or with a caravan going north.

Though that meant they would eventually cross into the Imperium, which brought problems of its own.

The narrow highway was getting busier by the hour, which often slowed their pace to that of the people walking ahead of them. Marilyn didn't seem to mind; the Orlesian maiden sat straight in her saddle, her gaze distant. Fenris had, for a very, very brief moment, felt a bit of kinship with her, being as she was something of a slave herself to her mother's whims. That is, until she had acted out and caused a brawl, for no other reason than that she liked to flirt.

_I suppose I helped with that_, he amended with some amusement, recalling the stunned faces looking up at him as he traipsed across their table. _And then Anders sealed it. I didn't think the mage knew how to fist fight._ Fenris hadn't stuck around to watch, but from what little he saw the blond man could hold his own when it came to bare knuckles and alcohol. _I guess I shouldn't be surprised, when I put it like that_. The thoughts were fond.

Anders rode next to Marilyn, ahead and to the side. Fenris could see the bright purple bruise on the man's cheekbone and the swell of his lower lip, the raw skin of his knuckles where his hands rested on his thigh. He had no idea why Anders didn't just heal himself; when he had asked, Anders' answer hadn't made much sense to the elf.

_Then, nothing about Anders makes much sense. He's an abomination who fights demons and blood mages, a healer who won't heal himself, a mage who enjoys brawling, a consummate lover of anything still breathing, but willing to hunt down a single man. I don't think I'll ever understand. _Fenris was experiencing even less success understanding himself. His hatred for the man had drained away like fluid from an infection. Perhaps they had reached some accord in their mutual need to find Hawke. Perhaps it was something deeper.

_Regardless, I don't think I can sleep next to the man again._ Fenris scowled at himself, his amusement vanishing. There was just something about the presence Anders exuded when he had come to their room, his headiness at the recent brawl, perhaps, the tang of blood and sweat, the sound of him sucking on his split lip and shifting about. Too much of that had started the pleasant ache that should belong to Hawke and Hawke alone.

"Don't look sad," the Warden spoke up beside him. "We'll find another Orlesian maiden for you to manhandle."

Fenris glared at the other elf. Marilyn had ranted this morning about how Fenris had grabbed her and stolen her away, touching her with his dirty elf hands and molesting her. The thought of it turned his stomach. It had been difficult enough to bring himself to hold her arm, drag her to her bedroom and lock her inside, even wearing gauntlets. He would have been more comfortable reaching into her chest and stopping her heart.

The Warden laughed, apparently cheered enough by their imminent arrival at the city to care little about Fenris' glowering.

Marilyn shot a dirty look back at them. Then she looked beyond them and smiled smugly.

_That can't be good_.

Fenris twisted in his saddle to see what pleased the maiden so greatly. Then he sighed. There, behind a small family and their cart, were the unmistakable heads of the soldiers she had won over so effectively the night before. They were riding hard, their expressions alight with battle lust, and they had nearly overtaken the small party.

"My friends," Anders called before Fenris had a chance to alert the others, "you wanted exercise this morning, didn't you?"

Ahead of them, tearing down the road and pushing other travellers out of the way, were the rest of the soldiers.

They prepared for battle with quiet efficiency. Fenris wasn't entirely comfortable fighting on a horse, but he didn't want to set it loose to wander away. He would just have to avoid accidentally spirit pulsing the poor thing.

The two groups had them tidily surrounded. Their apparent leader, a bald man with tattoos and thick gold rings in his one ear, brought his thin horse to a stop in front of Anders and Marilyn. He grinned with brown teeth at the Orlesian. "You look like you can use some rescuing, my girl. "

"Rescuing?" Anders repeated. "From us?"

"Two escaped elves and an apostate?" The man spat. "Don't think we don't know who you are."

"Escaped elves, he says?" muttered the Warden. "I think Alistair sent him." He grinned wickedly.

Fenris rolled his eyes. "You laugh at your own jokes far too much."

"Well, someone has to."

"Thank the Maker," cried the girl. "I can't stand these filthy things."

"Never fear, my lady. We don't abide elves unless they're in chains." He unsheathed a long, jagged dagger and pointed it at Fenris. "That one, though, owes us his feet."

"He won't sell for much, then," commented one of his companions.

Fenris should have been enraged by the discussion, but he was more entertained by their stupidity. It's like they _wanted_ to die. "Don't worry," he told them loudly. "I'm very good with my hands." Before waiting for them to react, he swung his horse around and charged at the group behind them. Their faces were startled, but quickly hardened. He smiled.

He was hampered by the horse, but fared well enough, sustaining only a few minor injuries. The same couldn't be said of his enemies, who seemed to think that his large weapon meant his attacks were slow. Those who did come close to unseating the elven warrior, more often than not, ended up on the wrong end of a spell. Once, Fenris shattered a man who had been frozen solid, sending chunks of pink and red ice across the road.

Finally, their leader called his surrender. When Fenris glanced back, he saw that the man was still on his horse, but the Warden sat quite comfortably behind him with a blade to the soldier's scarred throat. They were surrounded by bodies, riderless horses and frightened onlookers. A few of the soldiers remained upright, but they didn't look especially keen to continue the fight.

"You can't give up!" cried Marilyn. "What of my rescue?"

"Girl, you ain't worth it," the man replied, voice strangled by the pressure of the Warden's knife. His dark eyes slid to the side. "We'll leave you be, friend. You'll never see us again."

"I'm sure we won't," the Warden agreed. "Do you normally hunt elves and mages?"

"We're just mercs looking for good coin or a good lay. Thought we might get both. Tevinters are always looking for more elves and you don't fight half bad."

"Flatterer." Smiling, the Warden slit the man's throat and let the body slide off, still caught in the throes of death. He kept the man's dagger, though, holding it up and examining the blade with interest. "I hope you're satisfied, my lady," he said when he was satisfied.

Marilyn was pale faced, but retained her sullen silence.

The other mercenaries claimed their dead and limped away under the watchful glares of other travellers on the Nevarran highway.

"That will only get worse when we reach Tevinter," Fenris commented to the Warden when they started off again. At least one good point to the whole exchange was that everyone who had seen the fight now kept well away. "Slavers are common as nugs and they target elves almost exclusively."

"We'll deal with it," the Warden assured him. "I kind of like being so wanted."

Fenris shook his head and sighed.

/.\./.\

Nevarra City was as militant as Cumberland, but without the ameliorating factor of so much foreign trade. The streets were straight and well-maintained, the buildings weren't cracked or crumbling. There was little in the way of art or beauty, though. Everything seemed to have its own purpose.

It was late evening when they arrived, still bearing blood stains, at Lord Fawnley's estate. The shocked and offended butler allowed them entry when Marilyn presented her papers of introduction, and they were led into a nice sitting room, given food and drink, and told to stay off of the furniture.

"I think every mansion I've ever been in has the same portrait," Anders said, standing and looking up at the face of a dull-looking man hanging above the cold fireplace. He looked over his shoulder at Fenris and asked around a mouthful of some kind of Nevarran delicacy, "Didn't you have one?"

"I did until Isabela painted over it," the elf replied. He sat on the sill of one of the large windows, looking out on the deepening night and enjoying the cool, garden-scented air. With his back against one side of the window and his legs stretched along the bottom, he nearly felt relaxed.

There was a moment of silence. Fenris glanced up at the mage and flinched at the man's sudden, intense stare. Anders quickly looked away and resumed his chewing. Fenris dragged his attention back to the few faint stars that struggled to force their way past the city's glow. He firmly ignored the trembling, excited feeling in his belly.

_We're one step closer to Hawke_, he reminded himself.

Lord Fawnley himself didn't speak with the party, but he sent his steward to welcome Marilyn to their household. The thin man was very unimpressed with the party, being two elves, a dog and a ragged blond man, but he gave them the rest of their money without argument.

"I hope your journey was smooth," he inquired politely.

Marilyn opened her painted mouth and gushed, "It was the most fun I've ever had!" She turned to the three stunned men and smiled winningly. "Thank you so much, serahs. Because of you, I am safe and have so many stories to tell my new friends."

Fenris didn't know how Anders, with a perfectly straight face, managed to say, "It was a pleasure, dear lady."

Soon enough, they were on the streets with heavier purses and a lighter burden. They wandered the area around Lord Fawnley's estate until they found a brightly illuminated building with signage for drink and beds. There they ordered more wine than was probably good for them and discussed what was next.

"Danarius wouldn't have come through here, would he?" Anders asked.

"Doubtful. Not unless he needed a boat. Magisters almost exclusively travel the Imperial Highways." Fenris thought back to that long ago time when he walked softly in Danarius' retinue on those miles and miles of hard roads.

"Would a boat be faster? If we caught passage to..." He referred to the Warden's map. "Nessum. And then travelled by foot from there?"

"That would avoid the road and the highway patrols," the Warden added thoughtfully. "Though finding a route through all that grassland might be tricky."

"Ugh, I'm not really fond of tents." Anders made a face.

"Better than dodging patrols," was the Warden's reasoning.

"I'd like to know where Danarius has been and is going," Fenris interjected. "I don't like the idea of travelling the roads, but I'd rather follow him instead of arriving in Minrathous and discovering that Hawke is in Vyrantium at the Archon's summer home."

"Then a compromise. We follow the highway, but stay off it as much as possible."

"And do away with every encampment of up and coming slavers between here and Minrathous in the process," Anders agreed with a smirk.

"We'll need to join a caravan for the leg across the Silent Plains, but after that we'll be able to strike out on our own." The Warden leaned back and crossed his arms, his expression satisfied. "There should be merchants aplenty gathering in the docks. We'll go tomorrow and see what's available. I also need to visit the Circle and see if there are any messages from Alistair. Probably a lot of threats."

With their preliminary plans made, Fenris felt somewhat more optimistic about the whole endeavour, though he was still plagued with concern for Hawke. He considered Anders, recalling the mage's emphatic belief that he would know if Hawke were dead. Was that true? Fenris wished he could say the same, but he wouldn't delude himself into thinking that there was some mystical connection between himself and the Champion.

Anders noticed his stare. "Fenris?" he queried.

The elf blinked and shook his head. "Just thinking," he replied. "About Hawke."

"Tell me more about him." The Warden held up a hand to signal their server, then turned to his companions. "Here I am on an epic adventure, and I still hardly know about the cause."

Fenris and Anders looked to each other, for once not vying to claim the Champion. "You met him first," Fenris finally conceded.

Anders nodded once. "So I did." His expression grew distant and he made a face. "Six years ago, I met the most sorry excuse for a rogue you've ever seen. He came around begging for a map..."

/.\./.\

In all, they were stuck in Nevarra City for three days, each one more tedious and unnerving than the last. The only merchant they had found willing to take them on was a dwarf and her household, a rambunctious lot of stone masons travelling from city to city to do work on the homes of nobility. Though they were as tough as the material they worked with, they weren't much in the way of warriors, and the headwoman, Tenka, admitted that they could use the help in case they were waylaid by bandits or the great lizards that roamed the Silent Plains.

"We can't pay you much, but we'll carry your water," she told them brusquely. Seeing as the party had been recently and very well paid, they readily agreed.

They just had to wait for them to finish their latest job before they could leave.

Fenris idled away his time getting re-equipped, this time with a glimmering great sword with an edge on it like ice. After a few practice swings, much to the dismay of the shopkeeper plastered against the back wall of his booth, he affectionately referred to the weapon as Shard and went to get it enchanted.

Anders disappeared on his own business for hours at a time, presumably on the same mission; whenever Fenris saw him, he was wearing some new accessory.

In the evenings, the three wanderers engaged in cards and amiable conversation, swapping stories about their past adventures, both fun and heart-breaking. Apart from the nagging concern for Hawke and how they were wasting time, it would have been enjoyable.

Fenris could do without Anders' growing appeal, though. That was something that, as much as the elf tried to ignore it, wouldn't go away. At times, Anders reminded him painfully of Hawke, with the good-natured teasing, the flirtation with, well, everything, and that infamous Fereldan sense of humour. They shared some few physical characteristics as well, though that could simply be blamed on them being human males of about the same age. All humans looked alike, anyway, with their open faces, round ears and facial hair. Despite being a mage, Anders seemed to have a commendable musculature as well, possibly due to his penchants for whirling his staff around and punching other people in the neck. It was a pity he wore so many layers of clothing.

Then he would do something distinctly magical, like cooling off his own drinks with ice magic, which set Fenris on edge and sent him into one of his black moods.

"Last chance to enjoy a real bed," Anders said, startling Fenris out of his dark thoughts.

The elf blinked and looked up, worried that Anders had somehow figured out what he was thinking. "What?"

"Tomorrow we're on the road again," the mage explained. "We'll be sleeping under canvas on Maker knows what. Stones, probably. Isn't there anything you want to do to, I don't know, take advantage of the comfort while you can?"

Fenris' dark brow twitched. "Just what are you implying?"

The Warden coughed. "If he says, 'a man has needs,' I'm going to leave." Then he looked thoughtful. "You know, I think I'll leave, anyway. I'm going to be trapped with a bunch of dwarves and you two for the next few weeks. I need some Warden time." He stood, called to Dog, and sauntered away.

They watched him go. Then Anders chuckled lightly, his expression faintly worried. "I really was not implying that. You just looked... sad. Or very worried. Or perhaps on the brink of learning a new form of murder." He narrowed his eyes. "Did I interrupt murder, Fenris?"

Not too long ago, Fenris would have taken offence at that. Now, though, he recognized the tone in the mage's words indicating that he was trying to lighten the elf's mood, not insult him.

Fenris glared until the mage started to squirm nervously. Completely deadpan, he said, "No one can interrupt my murder."

There was a pause. Then Anders laughed aloud and slightly hysterically. "Oh, Maker, one day you're going to kill me and I'm going to deserve it."

"Don't say that."

The mage sobered immediately. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Fenris shrugged and returned his attention to his drink. This was all so awkward and difficult. He almost wished that they could fight again, or that he could comfortably state that he would happily kill the abomination. That had been much easier than this... this unfaithful longing.

"Is there, uh, anything on your mind?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Anders."

"All right."

Then, for some reason, Anders stayed with him. For a man who had so recently declared that they needed to enjoy their luxurious beds, he remained on his side of the table, working his way through a bottle of something clear and cold. They sat in silence for the rest of the night while the common room slowly emptied and it was Fenris who finally gave in and retired to his room.

/.\./.\

"Welcome aboard, boys," Tenka greeted them when they arrived at her caravan. Four large wagons, each drawn by a blind-folded bronto, waited in a semicircle in the warehouse district. Dwarves young and old bustled around, preparing their tools and wares for shipment. Some looked over curiously, but they never faltered in their duties.

"Why are those creatures blind-folded?" Anders wondered. "And... shiny?"

"They're from the underground," Tenka explained. Like all dwarves, she was short and muscular. With her grey hair, she looked like she might be transforming into the very material of her trade. "None of us like the open sky. Poor bastards won't move if they can see the big nothing above them. And their skin dries out like a monkey's tit on the plains, so we brush them with oil every so often. Makes 'em smell better, too."

"Ah. Of course." The mage shot a significantly displeased glance at the Warden, which the red-haired elf didn't seem to notice.

"You're free to ride in either of those two," the dwarf continued to explain, leading them around the wagons. "Don't get too close to the brontos, don't get underfoot, and don't drink too much water after we hit the sands. All we ask is that you take care of anything bigger than we are."

"I'm glad she didn't say taller," Anders murmured close to Fenris' ear.

The elf shivered and shifted away, folding his arms. "You're not amusing."

"Varric thought I was amusing."

"Varric isn't amusing, either."

When the caravan was ready and started moving, the sun was already shining above the city buildings and burning the streets. The three travellers and Dog walked alongside the wagons through the crowds of people.

They passed the gates of the Nevarran City Circle and the Warden jumped. "Oh, Anders, I forgot to ask why you were at the Circle. I saw you the other day."

"You were at the Circle?" Fenris asked sharply. His suspicions rose like a tide from their dormancy. Why would Anders come here? Was this just a continuation of Kirkwall? Was he sewing discontent among the cursed ranks of his fellow mages? Would the building be a smoking hole in the ground after they left the city?

Anders looked briefly stunned. His light brown eyes flicked from Fenris to the Warden and back again and his face convulsed slightly, before settling into something very calm. "Don't worry," he said. "I haven't incited any more rebellions, I promise. I just needed to send a message. Like the Warden."

"To whom?"

"Is that any of your business?"

Fenris blinked, feeling like Anders had just hit him with something cold and slimy. Why had he thought he had any right to know? "No," he said after a moment, stilted. "It isn't. You are correct."

For some reason, the mage looked afraid or guilty. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," Fenris snapped. "Just remember that, as we go north, the Circles will not be like the Circles you know."

"Yes, of course. I'll remember."

They walked in uncomfortable silence after that, and it only grew as they finally left the city.


	11. Chapter 11

**Warnings:** None. Well. Other than that the author is mutilating the Dragon Age magic mechanics. Also, angst.

**Author's Note**: Okay, okay, okay, so, I'm kind of embarrassed by this chapter, so I thought, "Well, I'll post the next one, too, it has sex! That will make everything betters!" And then I thought, "Well, jeeze, my sex is a little embarrassing, too, so I should probably post the NEXT bit, too, and maybe people won't notice how bad it is." And then I thought, "But that bit and the bit after that flow one to the other, I can't post them alone!" SO, I apologize if you have me on any kind of author or story alert, because I think I'm just going to post everything I have written so far and it's all going to end up in your in-box.

I recommend that you eat some dark chocolate while reading these.

Also, if you're interested, here is a bit of a play list in case you want to listen to what I'm listening to:

Black Light Dinner Party – Older Together  
Sucker Punch OST – Where Is My Mind?, Army of Me  
Nine Inch Nails – Something I Can Never Have, Hurt, Closer  
VAST – Flames (Or almost everything by them, really)  
Orbital - Halcyon + On + On  
The Civil Wars – Falling  
Tegan and Sara – So Jealous, Walking With a Ghost  
Sarah McLachlan - Possession, Fear, Ice (most of her stuff, actually)  
Niyaz - The Hunt, Dilruba

**Disclaimer:** Whee, playing with someone else's stuff!

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Eleven**

Could a man die from guilt? Anders was beginning to think so. As his fondness for Fenris grew, so too did his despair. All over again, he felt the same sharp, painful, stabbing guilt that resulted from betraying Hawke and all of his companions.

It was almost worse than the sharp, painful, stabbing agony of the sun, beating down from the sky and beating up from the sand in equal measure. Fenris and the Warden, with their sensitive elven eyes, were in the last wagon, but Anders persevered. Maybe if he suffered enough physically, his conscience would stop complaining.

After that one brief conversation by the Nevarra City Circle, whatever relationship had been developing between the mage and Fenris had just about reversed, as though the elf realized exactly what the mage was up to. Anders wouldn't have realized just how much he had come to appreciate the elf's companionship until it was suddenly stolen away. It was hard for him to complain, though. He had no right to carry on a facade of friendship with Fenris. That would just hurt them both.

_Maker, I want to, though_, Anders thought miserably. He missed the subtle, wry humour, the intelligent observations, the quiet intensity of the man. After a week of travel, all he had gotten from the elf was disdain. He wouldn't even rise to an insult or a jibe, but tolerated Anders the same way that Anders tolerated the heat; like a trial to struggle through in order to reach some far away goal.

_It is right,_ Justice assured him. _There is no other way._

_Shut up._ Anders rubbed his sweating, sun burnt forehead. _Please. I don't want to hear that. _If the personification of Justice said that this was the right thing to do, why was it killing Anders from the inside?

A loud whistle interrupted his dark ruminations. He searched for the sound and spotted one of the wagon drivers. The woman, shrouded in loose white clothes, whistled again and pointed above them. The mage shaded his eyes and squinted up at the clear blue sky. After some straining, he finally spotted the reason for her alert. Something big and black was circling high above them.

_It could be a vulture,_ he thought. _Maybe they sense despair._

The wagons came to a halt and dwarves hopped out, all of them dressed in those cool, protective robes. Tenka glared at the sky and swore in a long string of Dwarven, then she looked around and waved over the mage.

"Get your friends," she barked. "We've got a DFA."

"DFA?" he repeated.

"Death from above."

Anders didn't need to go anywhere. Fenris, the Warden and Dog, all of them grimacing at the light, had already emerged to find out what was going on. The Warden trotted to Tenka and Anders, his expression a question. Fenris lurked in what little shade the wagon provided.

"I don't see the beer oasis," the Warden said. "Why did we stop?"

"Very funny, elf," Tenka scoffed. "I hope your sword is sharper than your wit." She jerked a thumb at the sky. Above them, the first dark shape had been joined by four others and had increased in size rather ominously.

The Warden's golden eyes lifted. He grinned. "Dragons. Seven of them, all young. Must be sisters. Probably just left home. I hope we don't have to kill all of them."

"Seven?" Tenka repeated. "By the Stone."

"You lot stay in the wagons and keep your brontos quiet. We'll earn our water." The Warden looked to Anders. "Have you anything that will help keep the wagons from burning?"

Anders nodded shortly. An elemental protection spell would hold for a short time.

At Tenka's orders, the dwarves moved their wagons into a protective clump and hid.

The three adventurers and Dog drew away from the vulnerable canvas vehicles, intending on luring the dragons to a safe distance to fight. As they ran, the Warden adjusted a long bow on his back.

"You have a bow?" Anders asked, startled. This was the first he'd seen of it.

"Of course. Don't you have a ranged weapon set?" This he asked of Fenris.

"No."

Anders, his blood hot at the idea of battle, forgot that the Tevinter elf wasn't talking to him anymore. "Fenris doesn't need a ranged weapon," he said. "He just tells the enemy to land." Fenris rolled his eyes, which counted as a reaction, so Anders gleefully continued. "Or if you throw your sword, would it come back to you?"

"If I throw _you_, would you come back to me?" the elf asked dryly.

"Always."

Fenris didn't respond, which suited Anders just fine. He hadn't meant to say that.

Once they had reached a good distance, the Warden shot arrows that sparkled with blue ice energy and Anders flung spells and simple spirit bolts. Fenris drank warmth balm, fed some to Dog, loosened his shoulders and neck, and started to glow. Once the animals were on the ground, he would be in the thick of it with claws and fire striking his tender skin.

_Did I just refer to Fenris' skin as tender?_ Anders asked himself. He thought back. _Yes. Yes I did. Maker help me._

Then he didn't have to think any more.

The dragons screeched at each other when they started receiving fire. Their elegant and deadly circling turned into indelicate frantic flapping and, finally, the plummet of their long bodies upon the insignificant humanoids that had dared attack them.

Many of Anders' spells wouldn't have much of an effect on the creatures, so he concentrated on his concern for his companions and slid into his spirit healer aspect. He boosted the Warden and, grudgingly, Dog, granting them greater speed, strength and some meagre protection. As much as he wanted to do the same for Fenris, he recalled the fear and loathing with which Fenris had regarded the mage at the idea of magic on his skin. Without Hawke issuing commands, Fenris didn't have to put up with Anders' assistance.

The moment the dragons struck the ground, Fenris was there, his steely blue sword swinging, slicing through scale and bone. Dog wasn't far behind him, tearing into the enemy. The two made a frighteningly ferocious pair, nearly lost to sight in the flapping wings, snapping jaws and reaching claws. The Warden stood back, shooting grimly into the morass. His arrows, which through some miracle did not strike his companions, confused, stunned and slowed the dragons. Anders stood with him and sent his spirit attacks against anything resembling moving dragon flesh.

It wasn't long before the dragons realized that there were two other combatants. One of them pounced out of the mob and leapt on Anders before Anders had a chance to do much more than squeak. Thick black talons dug into his robes and the flesh of his hips and the long jaws closed on his shoulder. He screamed, embarrassingly, and was barely able to manage a mind blast to get the thing off of him. In the tiny space of time before it attacked again, he begged the magic in his veins and soul to heal his ravaged body. It came, flooded him, healed him and he was able to shakily get to his feet in time to see Fenris hack the beast's head off.

"Maker," Anders breathed, watching the head fly off and bounce across the sand. The body shuddered to the ground.

"What is wrong with you?" Fenris roared, whirling on the mage. The lyrium burned brightly and the sun shone off of his hair; he looked more spirit than man. "When the dragon comes after you, you run!"

Anders nodded mutely, thinking, _When you go after the dragon, the dragon runs._

"Fenris!" the Warden shouted, quickly followed by a yelp from Dog.

The elf snarled and sprinted away.

Anders quickly cast a defensive glyph around himself, less worried about another attack from a dragon than he was about Fenris' anger. _What did I do?_

In the end, five dragons perished and two barely managed to flap away. One, her wing badly damaged, probably wouldn't make it. The other would probably avoid caravans for a very, very long time.

The four travellers were singed, bruised and bloody, but satisfied. Tenka was even more satisfied, possibly more by the wealth of dragonbone she acquired than by the fact that her wagons and people were completely unharmed. When the caravan stopped for the night, she invited them to share her private stock. They sat with her, her husband and her lover behind her wagon, on crates and bits of supplies, passing around a flask of some drink that tasted like roasted mushrooms and soil.

"What are you doing on the surface, anyway?" the Warden asked after a round of idle chatter. He leaned back against Dog, far enough from the bronto-shit fire that only his golden eyes showed clearly. The rest of the man was a pale spectre against the blue-black of the desert night.

"Patent dispute," Tenka replied. "My cousin and I worked together on a new technique for stone-crafting, and then she went and claimed it as her own. There were words and then a chisel and then a poor job of getting rid of the body. That duster, Harrowmont, sided with the bitch's household and I was exiled. The prince would've backed me... If I ever find the Grey Warden that put Harrowmont on the throne, I'll cave his skull in."

The Warden coughed. "You seem to be doing well for yourself."

Tenka shrugged and accepted the flask from her lover. "Well enough. The surface ain't so bad, not really. At night you can just imagine you're in a big cave with glowing bugs on the ceiling."

"I'm going to think about that whenever I look up at the night sky, now," Anders said, smirking.

"Lad, I can give you something else to think about at night." She winked and tossed the flask at him.

Anders was becoming quite fond of the mushroom liquor. He raised it to the dwarf. "I'll drink to that, lady of the stone."

The dwarves laughed and repeated the phrase to each other.

"I think we should paint that on the wagons," Tenka said thoughtfully. "Not only is he a master with magic, but a master of words, as well. Ah! The dark elf is leaving so soon? I haven't even brought out the cards."

Fenris, to Anders' eyes just another shadow topped with moonlight, waved a gauntleted hand without turning around. "I've had enough," came his flat voice.

"You'll play with us, won't you?" Tenka said to Anders, leering. "You don't have to play with money, my lad. Bladal, fetch the cards, would you, my fuzzy nug?"

Her lover rolled his eyes, but went to obey. Before he returned, Anders hurriedly got to his feet.

"You'll have to excuse me, but I should retire as well. It takes more than a drink and a lady's smile to recover from a dragon's tender caress."

Tenka, fortunately, didn't object beyond a few friendly jibes at his lack of fortitude and how she could help raise it. Laughing, Anders waved his hands and backed away. When he was far from the fire light, he dropped the smile and turned. He felt like a piece of his soul had just walked away and he was desperate to find it.

_Anders, this is a bad idea._ He didn't know if this one was Justice or himself. He didn't care. _A very, very bad idea. You're just going to hurt yourself and him. He may not be innocent, but he doesn't deserve it._

Obstinately, the mage stalked on.

For all that the elf was the same colour as the night, he was surprisingly easy to find. Fenris had wandered beyond the caravan's perimeter, though not out of ear shot, and sat on a pile of boulders with his back to the dwarves, somehow making the craggy perch look comfortable. Anders' eyes weren't the best in the dark, but the cold desert air was so clear that the light shed by the stars (_Glowing insects_, he reminded himself.) and the moon allowed him to see Fenris with relative clarity. The elf was all long, dark lines and the glimmer of armour. His sword leaned against a rock close to his hand, the enchantments shimmering faintly.

Now that Anders had found him, he didn't really know what to say. He knew the elf knew he was there-human mages weren't exactly renowned for their stealth—but he didn't know if he should wait for an acknowledgement. So he dithered for an indecisive moment and finally cleared his throat and asked, "May I join you?"

"Hn."

Well, that wasn't a "no." Anders decided to take it at face value and clambered up onto the rocks. He wasn't an especially graceful climber, but he made the ascent without any embarrassing accidents or tearing his coat, so he supposed he could be grateful.

When he had settled beside the elf, he allowed the silence to wash over him. The plains were aptly named; other than the lowing of the brontos, the rough voices of the dwarves and the crackle of their fires, the only sound was the whisper of sand on sand. Anders leaned back, his palms braced on the warm rock, closed his eyes and listened. That whisper was like a voice, the voice of something so much bigger, older and wiser than any living thing could ever be. He wondered, if he listened long enough, would he learn any of the Silent Plain's secrets?

Something skittered across his hand. Anders gasped and flinched, scratching his skin furiously. He looked about suspiciously, but saw no evidence of small, creeping things on the rock behind him. Whatever it was had probably already run into his robes and was getting ready to build its nest somewhere extremely inconvenient.

"Problems?" Fenris asked.

"Several of them," Anders replied, forcing himself to settle down. "I... hate spiders."

"I don't know many people that like them."

"I mean, I'm... I'm afraid of them. Deathly afraid of them."

"Why?"

"Because... they have so many _legs_ and so many _eyes_." Anders shuddered and shook his clothing and rubbed his hair, convinced that he could feel some of those tiny feet on him now. "I don't even mind the large ones so much. We can see them. It's the small, hidden ones that I'm afraid of."

"I thought you loved all the Maker's children."

Anders may have been mistaken, but he thought he heard the slightest strain of humour in the elf's voice. "Almost all of them," he replied. He held out his hands as though dictating. "It's in my manifesto: All creatures are equal, except for spiders, which have far too many legs, and cats, which are naturally superior to all other things."

Fenris snorted. It was almost a laugh.

"I, uh, I want to tell you a story," Anders started hesitantly.

"Do I want to hear it?"

"It's not sexual in the least," the mage quickly assured him. "It's from my Circle days."

"Ah."

"We weren't allowed pets. We weren't allowed anything, really, but that's not the point." He could sense the elf withdrawing and he hurried on. "I had a cat for a while, when I was kept in solitary. Direct from the Maker, I'm sure. But a friend of mine, kind of a strange sort, but nice enough, he found a spider in some dusty corner and he kept it as a pet. He would carry it in a small wooden box and feed it other insects and tell it all his secrets. That sort of thing." He shuddered at the memory. "I think it's name was... Mesere Many-foot. Or something like that."

"Fascinating," Fenris drawled.

"Well, anyway, one day he wanted me to hold Mesere Many-foot. He thought that I wouldn't be afraid of spiders if I just got the chance to hold one, see how gentle they could be, feel the tingle of their little, ugh, legs... So one day, he convinces me. We go to his room and he brings out this spider and he's talking to it, introducing us, telling me all about Mesere's personality. And the whole time I thought he was barking mad, and me more so, just for being there. And, finally, he had me hold out my hand and he let the thing walk onto my palm."

Anders fell silent, ruminating and trying to make his shivers go away.

"And?" Fenris prompted.

"I threw it on the ground and set it on fire," Anders replied dully. "I couldn't take it. It died screaming in a tiny spider voice. Poor Mesere. We held a funeral for him, read some of the Chant, and my friend never forgave me."

The Silent Plains whispered around them.

"So what was the point of that story?" Fenris finally asked.

Anders shook himself out of memory. Had there been a point? Oh yes... "Well, it seems, to me, that you have the same problem with magic."

"I don't think-"

"Just, please, hear me out." He nearly reached out to touch the elf's wrist, but stopped a few inches away. "Please. What I mean is that magic is something so completely unnatural, something that's abused you, lurked in your nightmares, haunted the dark spaces, crawled up and down your spine and all over your skin. Well, quite literally for you..." There was something that he was trying to say, but the thoughts weren't forming quite as nicely as he could have desired. "I don't want to compare your loathing of magic with a simple spider phobia, but I just... I guess I want you to know that I understand, even if I don't like it. Fear isn't always something you can control."

"I don't fear magic," Fenris growled.

_Oh, Maker, I said something wrong._

"Magic always turns on its users. It destroys everything. I don't fear it just because I want nothing to do with it."

Anders licked his lips and steeled himself. He wouldn't let this devolve into an argument. "It's not going to just go away," he said quietly. "There is so much of it in the world, tied in with everything else we know. It's in the air you breathe, the water you drink, the earth beneath your feet. It's in your skin, giving you strength. It's in my soul, letting me reach out and help those who need it."

The elf's breaths were unusually loud, indicating that he was either about to run away or attack. Starlight reflected from his wide eyes.

"It's a tool and, yes, a weapon. I have seen more people obliterated by their desire for power than I care to admit. But you can't deny that it's a part of us. All of us." He leaned back a bit, realizing that he had become a little too close, too intense.

"You won't convince me to be a mage sympathizer."

Anders laughed shortly. "No, that's not it. I just want to... I want to help you. In battle and out. I'm a healer, remember?" He summoned the green aura around his fingers. It lit Fenris' face, turning the lyrium markings a bright, poisonous colour. The elf flinched. "Why won't you let me? It wasn't a problem before."

"I trusted Hawke." _To kill Anders if the mage did something wrong_, was left unsaid.

"And you don't trust me," Anders stated.

"No."

The mage sighed. "I don't suppose you would relent to holding a spider in your palm?"

"I might set it on fire."

That was a more favourable response than Anders had expected. Surprised, he peered at Fenris' face, but he saw only that impassive frown. The mage nodded. "I'm willing to take that risk."

Fenris turned away, huffed, and then turned back and presented his gauntleted hand, palm up.

Anders had cast auras, protections, enhancements and healing spells on the elf before this night, before Fenris decided he couldn't handle it. So the mage decided to do something different. Something to convince Fenris that he was in control and that Fenris would never, never come to harm from his magic.

"My specialities are healing and primal," he began conversationally, holding up a hand beneath the elf's and another above, without touching the black metal and leather. "Healing requires precise control and genuine desire to help other people." _Which is why Merrill couldn't heal anything_, he thought bitterly, but quickly brushed the unkind thought aside. "Primal magic is nearly the opposite. You have to abandon yourself and embrace natural forces that go far, far beyond your own pitiful existence." He nodded at the Silent Plains. "There is a force that could overwhelm me, should I let it."

"You aren't convincing me," Fenris said.

"Patience, my friend. What I'm trying to say is that often mages will take in too much, go too far, and lose the piece of themselves that makes them human. Their conscience, you might call it. I, however, love cats. And for some reason that always brings me back." He shook his head. "Anyway, mages need to hold onto their humanity and they need to trust themselves. They also need to think small. Because sometimes the smallest magic is the most effective."

"Says the man who demolished a Chantry."

"Hush." Before Fenris could complain any further, Anders reached out and reached in for that curious, tingling magic of which he was so fond. Tiny, lavender sparks appeared between his fingers.

Fenris breathed in sharply, but his hand didn't move.

Slowly, Anders increased the flow of energy, inviting those familiar primal forces to find their paths within him.

_Not too familiar, though_, he corrected himself. _When they become too familiar, then you become too dead._

He had done this with lovers in the past, those he wished to impress with intimate magics. Here, with Fenris' glittering eyes on him, Anders wished that this was his first time. This felt vastly more important, as though more than just his life depended on earning the elf's trust.

_Hawke's life depends on it_.

The electricity suddenly jumped from one of Ander's hands to the other, going through the elf's gauntlet and the flesh beneath. It was calm, or as calm as electricity ever was, and Anders knew it would feel like little more than a warm touch or perhaps a tingle. It could be very, very pleasant in the right circumstances.

The elf's face was a mask, completely inscrutable. He hadn't run the mage through, yet, so Anders continued. Bolts and sparks passed from hand to hand, gathering speed and light, as though Fenris was reaching into a ball of lightning.

At this point, with those other intimates, this mild magic would lead to something else, perhaps a full body primal bath. In this instance, Anders let the magic die and finally vanish, leaving behind the scent of sauteed ozone and warm metal.

_Shush-shush_, said the Silent Plains.

Fenris made a fist and let his arm drop back to his side.

"Will you let me support you in battle?" Anders asked when he started to get nervous. This was, ostensibly, the purpose of that little display.

"I have noticed the loss of your barriers," Fenris admitted. Anders felt a wash of relief, quickly reversed when Fenris held up a clawed finger. "However. I want to show you something as well."

"Anything."

Fenris' lyrium burned to life, momentarily blinding the mage. The elf growled, turned blue, and thrust his hand into Anders' chest.

The mage choked. He could _feel_ it, a spectral grip around his heart, and pure, blind panic rose up at the thought that _this_ was the end, with only the slightest squeeze he would lose his life.

Then the elf pulled back and recorporealized. He stared at his fingers, curling and extending. "Now we have unnerved each other equally, I think. I will never think that you are less dangerous than that. No matter what you say."

Anders heaved a sigh and felt his chest, finding it intact. "That's fair," he said, shaking his head and forcing a laugh. "Too many underestimate magic. Thank-you for not stopping my heart."

"You're welcome."

The wind had picked up while they were talking, or perhaps because of Anders' casting. The caravan was dark and quiet, even the brontos were asleep. Anders contemplated the moon, now low to the west, and the plumes of sand curving up and glittering in the wind, like lost stars trying to attain the sky.

The mage stretched out his hand and concentrated on what he saw and heard. There was magic there, in the whispering and the movement of the wind, something incredibly powerful.

"What?" Fenris suddenly said.

Anders blinked and dropped his arm. "What?" he asked, confused.

"You said something," explained the elf. "Sand storm."

"I did?" Anders rubbed his eyes. "Are you sure? I don't think I said anything." But he couldn't be sure. "Maybe I'm just tired."

"It has grown late."

The mage's rear, he realized, had gone numb, and the once-warm rock was as cold as everything else. He shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to go. Sitting here with the elf, as tense as their conversation and demonstrations had been, was the best thing that had happened so far in this little venture of theirs. Not even his conscience could ruin it. Well, not entirely.

"We'll talk about this again," he said aloud, mostly to himself.

"Perhaps."

Anders slid from his perch, shaking his legs out to get feeling back. He looked up at the elf, once more a lonely shadow in the desert. Then he turned to find his way to his bed.

/.\./.\

The next day passed easier. Though Anders was still afflicted with guilt, at least Fenris wasn't ignoring him. He rode with the two elves and the panting dog in the back of the water wagon, amusing himself by giving thirsty dwarves water as cold as ice. The Warden kept up a steady, mostly one-sided conversation and Anders and Fenris didn't talk about what had transpired between them on that pile of rocks.

Though Anders did notice Fenris opening and closing his hand frequently throughout the day. Every time he caught the elf doing it, Anders rubbed his own chest. A man like Fenris could, literally, steal your heart.

One unfortunate side effect of that dark conversation, Anders discovered, was that he now wondered just what else Fenris could go through, how much of his body could go through, how good his aim was, and whether it had any application in the bedroom.

Leaning back against a cool barrel, rocking gently as the wagon progressed, Anders brooded on his dark companion. _Did Hawke and he ever...?_

Bringing Hawke into the mental picture just made it worse. Or better, depending on one's point of view. Anders' carnal lust thought it was better, while Anders' seething guilt thought it worse. His imagination was afflicted with all sorts of scenarios involving the Champion of Kirkwall, electricity, and the ability to pass through flesh.

_How about you think about cats?_ he suggested to his busy subconscious. _You like cats._

That worked until the Warden distracted him with the question, "Fenris, why are you reading a book on etiquette?"

The dark elf, lounging bonelessly across the rounded sides of three large barrels, didn't look up from his page. "No one else will teach me. Apparently I don't take criticism well."

Anders snickered and warmed with pleasure. Then his thoughts devolved, once more, into happy fantasies of Fenris and Hawke. Maker help him.

Evening seemed to fall on them with unexpected speed. Anders was startled when the canvas walls darkened, but reasoned that he had been so deep in day dreams that he had missed most of the day. Until a dwarf started to holler and the cry was taken up all up and down the line of wagons.

"What now?" the Warden sighed. The wagon creaked to a halt and the elf slid out through the back flap, Dog at his heels. Anders and Fenris followed, Fenris carefully marking his page before tucking the book away.

Once out in the still, dry air, the sun like a hammer on his skull, it took Anders a moment to figure out what was wrong. The dwarves were shouting to each other to get the wagons together and the brontos covered, all of them pointing at a hill to the north. As much as he squinted, Anders couldn't see anything on the hill but sand. Then he recalled that there were no hills.

Fenris shot him a glare. "Anders, did you conjure a sand storm?"

"Uh." Anders quailed. "I've never even _seen_ a sand storm!"

"That's what you called last night."

"But I didn't! I can't!" He stared, wide-eyed, at the approaching wall of dust and sand. The sky continued to darken and the sun became a giant red eye. _At least, I don't think I can._ Was this what the Silent Plains had whispered in his ear?

"Get back in the wagon, lads," Tenka shouted. "There ain't nothing to do but wait it out and pray to whatever watches the surface." She grinned at them, her dark eye finding Anders. "You can stay in our wagon if you'd like, lad."

Anders didn't answer. The storm was close enough that he could see the roiling innards of it, billowing and boiling like a cauldron. He was transfixed. Without intending to, he took a step toward it. Then another. There was so much _power_, so much force, built up over the endless miles of the Silent Plains, armed with the miniscule swords of sand. Here it was, coming down on him, coming _to_ him. He could almost reach out and touch it...

Then Fenris grabbed the front of the mage's coat and roared over the sudden animal howl of the wind, "Get your ass in the wagon!" He shoved Anders backward, sending the mage stumbling across the writhing sand.

The Warden was at the back flap. He helped drag Anders inside. The mage needed the assistance; he felt numb and distant. Most of his mind was with that storm. He could feel its hunger and need, nearly a match for his own. He curled up on the floor, shivering and holding his knees, while Fenris hopped in and loomed over him.

"What's wrong with him?" the Warden asked. "If you hadn't gotten him-"

The storm descended. It felt like hands were on the wagon, shaking it back and forth, banging on the walls. The wind itself made a whining, chattering, screaming noise. Fenris' reply was lost in it.

Anders huddled in the dark and tried not to want it. The darkness was nearly complete, the air in the tent was full of sand that blew in through the gaps around the edges of the canvas. He buried his head in his arms to protect his eyes and mouth and cover his ears.

_Anders, Anders, Anders..._

The Silent Plains had lifted its voice from a whisper and it wanted an answer.

His head went up. His senses—sight and hearing—were useless in the riotous gloom, but he could feel the elves and mabari nearby, protecting their faces and curled up on the floor, tucked between the barrels of water. They would not be able to stop him.

He stood and called a barrier to protect himself before sliding out into the storm.


	12. Chapter 12

**Warnings**: Chapter Twelve, otherwise known as the Chapter With Sex. Well, other than the very brief mention of it in earlier chapters. This one should be better. I hope. So, warnings for somewhat graphic male/male intercourse. As well as the author, again, taking liberties with the magic mechanics.

**Author's Note**: Augh. I avert mine eyes and hope for the best.

**Disclaimer**: I tried to play nice with them...

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twelve**

The storm didn't last much longer than an hour, but that was long enough for Fenris to get a bucketful of sand in his mouth, eyes, and nose and under his clothes. When the wind died, the elf lifted his head and shook himself. With a whine, Dog got up and did the same, splattering sandy drool everywhere.

It took a while to get enough sand out of his sensitive eyes to see, but when he finally cracked them open, Fenris' heart sank. The Warden was there, ruffling sand out of his red hair, but Anders was gone.

"Where did he go?" he croaked, mouth and throat dry to the point of pain.

The Warden looked up. "Anders? I didn't see him leave."

Fenris scrambled to the flap, angry and afraid. _Maker help me, if the storm didn't kill him, I will._

Outside, the wind had died to a weak breath and the light had returned to normal. It looked to be early evening. Sand was piled against the wagons to over half the vehicles' height, and the brontos were completely submerged, protected under tarpaulins. A few of the dwarves stomped about, beating their clothes and complaining loudly. Anders wasn't there.

The dark elf hurried to make a circuit of the caravan, his eyes searching. The highway was scraped clean, stones shining whitely in the light, but the rest of the world was flat, featureless sand, without a mage to be seen. He recalled that expression of blank wanting on Anders' face when he had started walking _toward_ the storm and it frightened him. Had the mage gone out when the storm was in its full fury?

Fenris wanted to tell himself that death would serve Anders right, but he couldn't. He didn't want to face the rest of this journey _alone_...

He heard Tenka bray some commands and his heart leapt. Of course, Anders would have accepted her offer, he was a twisted bastard like that.

The elf hurried to the head dwarf's wagon. There were Tenka, her husband and her lover, surveying the damage. No Anders.

"Oi," Tenka shouted when she saw him. "You lads all right?"

"Where's Anders?" he demanded.

She looked at him strangely. "He's over there."

He whirled to follow her extended finger. There, coming down from a low sand dune, was Anders. He appeared normal, his expression dreamy, and sand puffed up with every step as he strode toward them, using his staff as support.

Fenris alternated between relief and a strong desire to strangle the man. He settled on cold indifference as he marched himself back to the water wagon. There he sat with the Warden, picking sand out of his armour, until Anders returned.

"Where did you go?" the Warden was the one to ask after the man dragged himself inside and slumped against a barrel.

The mage, eyes closed and head back, smiled to himself. "I went to talk to the storm. I learned a new spell." He held out a handful of sand and, without looking, made it wisp up in a spiral. "It's like... really, really good sex..." His roughened voice trailed off.

Fenris bit his tongue to keep from exploding into another angry rant. This entire situation was wrong, from the magic, to the over-sexed mage, to Fenris' distressing and unfounded concern for the man. Doubt plagued him. His own convictions, which had once seemed so unbending, were cracking and falling apart. He made a fist, recalling the sensation of Anders' magic moving through him; a gentle, tingling warmth, something far more enjoyable than it should have been.

The Warden looked at him, his expression sympathetic. Fenris scowled. He didn't want the man's sympathy.

The dark elf departed, hoping to walk off some of his distress. Maybe he would get lucky and find a High Dragon to work it out on. Or eat him. He wasn't sure which would be better.

The dwarves had uncovered their beasts, but they also made the motions of setting up camp. Fenris didn't have to worry about them leaving without him, at least. He stalked away.

The Silent Plains were still flat and dreary, empty but for miles of sand and the occasional pile of rocks. Fenris would have liked another cairn on which to perch, but this area was even flatter than the last. So he walked without stopping and brooded on how much simpler things had been with Hawke, how much he missed the man, how much he had come to rely on Anders' bratty presence.

He returned after dark and took his meal with a trio of dwarves he had never even exchanged words with before. They seemed startled to see the quiet elf, but welcomed him easily enough to their small fire. One of them, a young female, attempted to engage him in conversation a few times, mostly talking about what she had seen of the battle with the dragons, but his terse replies quickly dissuaded her.

Everything tasted like sand.

He didn't want to return to his companions, but the dwarves soon wanted to retire for the night. So he wandered away again.

As he left the caravan, he had to admit that the desert, as brutal as it had been, was quite beautiful. Despite his vast internal conflict, the sight of the stars and the moon, now nearly full, eased him. No matter what happened on the world, those stars would remain, hanging in their celestial realm. The moon had, no doubt, looked down on worse misery than his own, and that provided some cold comfort.

Fenris found a patch of sand that looked as comfortable as any other, removed his sword and sat down.

This was where Anders found him. As though Fenris didn't have enough trouble with his own turbulent emotions, the mage had an uncanny knack for seeking him out and making things worse.

Fenris couldn't bring himself to send the man away, though.

"Do you think Hawke got to see any of this?" Anders asked after he settled beside the elf.

Fenris shook his head. Why was it Anders who had made him think of the Champion? Why hadn't Fenris been holding the man in his mind to begin with? Was he so unfaithful?

"I don't know."

Like the previous night, they sat in silence. Fenris started to relax, though he kept his eyes focused on the stars.

"I... want to apologize," Anders said after a time. "The Warden said that you were concerned that I had gone. I'm sorry."

Fenris' first instinct was to lie and declare that he had never, in all his life, worried after the well-being of a mage. He kept it to a dismissive shrug.

"Would you... like to see what I learned?" The mage shuffled around. "I think it might be useful some day."

Fenris didn't reply, which the mage apparently took as agreement, for he stood and began casting. A localized wind picked up around them, gentle where it brushed past Fenris' cheek, but frenzied only a few yards in front of him. As Anders swayed and waved his arms, the wind moved the sand in ribbons and plumes, whipping it ever higher. Until, finally, curving gracefully in the moonlight was a strange, ethereal sculpture.

Anders returned to Fenris' side and dropped to the ground, laughing breathlessly. "Maker, I forgot what that feels like." He turned to the elf. "New, untamed magic. It rides you hard."

"I don't want to hear about you being ridden." He nodded his white head toward the sculpture. Even now, without Anders holding it, streams of silver were falling from its curves. "I suppose, the next time we're up against a room full of demons, you can amaze them with your wind craft."

"And won't they be amazed," Anders agreed. Still grinning, he sprawled, leaning on his elbows and letting his head fall back, exposing his chin and throat to the light.

_Don't look_, Fenris told himself firmly. _Don't touch. Don't want._

"I don't normally go out and get myself into trouble," Anders suddenly said. When Fenris glanced over, the mage's expression was serious as he regarded the elf. "I get the impression that you think I'll wander into my own demise, purely by accident."

"Stupidity is not accidental."

Anders smirked. "If I was going to kill myself, I would have done so long before now. I certainly won't while Hawke is in danger." His gaze became distant. "I suppose, what I mean to say is, you needn't fear me, nor fear for me. You can trust me."

Fenris shifted uneasily. Was he so blatant? "I don't know that I can." He admitted, barely above a whisper. "Nor can I trust myself with you."

He hadn't meant to say that. Not at all. Frightened by his own low voice, he stared wide-eyed at Anders and waited for some kind of joking response.

The mage looked stunned, like Fenris had just clubbed him over the head. He cleared his throat, licked his lips and asked, "What do you mean?"

Fenris snapped. Without intending it, the lyrium flashed in his skin and he bared his teeth. "Isn't it obvious?" he snarled and leapt upon the mage.

Anders released a short cry, cut off when Fenris, hands around the man's skull, crushed their mouths together. There was an instant where Anders was unresponsive, then his lips opened with a groan and he grabbed the elf's hips. The pressure served to increase Fenris' hunger; he felt that Anders' wind storm had found its way into his belly and ravaged him from the inside out.

He wanted this. Maker, how he wanted it. He wanted the solid human warmth between his knees, the strong jaw against his lips, the hot breath gusting past his ear as he bit the salty skin just under the mage's collar. He held Anders down and took what he wanted, drawing a string of gasps and curses from the roughened throat. The mage bucked and thrashed, either trying to escape or participate, and his movements pushed Fenris to further, violent passion.

His clawed, gauntleted fingers tore at the mage's coat. When he saw that pale, gold-dusted skin, he realized what he was doing and, with physical effort, reared back on his heels, holding his trembling wrist against his wet lips.

"Andraste's heart-shaped birthmark," Anders exclaimed breathlessly. "Don't _stop_!" He rose up under the elf and reached for him.

"Don't touch me," Fenris shouted, scrambling back and landing in the sand.

Anders froze. "Fenris?"

"I..." The Tevinter fugitive, feeling dizzy, leapt to his feet, seeking purchase in the loose grains. "Hawke," he whispered, groping for reason. "This is wrong."

The mage snorted faintly. "I can't think of anything more right... Other than having him here with us." His tone didn't match the playful words. He sounded serious.

"Maker..." Fenris covered his eyes. "You Fereldans."

"_Your_ Fereldans," Anders corrected, low voiced. Fenris heard him get to his feet, his coat rustling and sand falling from the fabric. "You have two of them now."

Fenris refused to look at him. "Easy enough for you to say. You'll sleep with anything on two legs."

"That is unkind, elf." There was silence, and then a sigh. "True. But unkind. Hawke spurned me for you."

"Barely." Fenris rubbed his gritty face and finally regarded the other man. "I know it was close. I know he still felt very... fond of you."

"The Maker knows why." Anders chuckled and scratched the back of his head. "After all I did to him. To you all."

The elf stared at him sourly.

"I'm sorry, Fenris. I never apologized for what that must have been like for you."

"Don't. You did what you thought you had to do." Was he really helping Anders justify his own actions?

"As did we all." Why was the mage smiling like that? Why was he walking forward with that intent expression? Why didn't Fenris protest when, with the gentlest touch, Anders angled the elf's jaw up for a very soft and fleeting kiss?

Fenris closed his eyes again and tried to imagine Hawke, but his memories of the man were tangled and snarled with these new and inexplicable desires.

"We'll get him back," the mage murmured when he pulled away. They stood close together, very close. "Together. And then we'll figure ourselves out." He smirked. "Like who gets to be in the middle."

Fenris scowled. "Nothing will be figured out unless you stop dallying with every woman, man and desert we encounter."

The mage blinked and his smirk turned into a grin. "You mean there's hope for me if I keep my hands to myself?"

The elf palmed his forehead and sighed. He couldn't believe he was... in agreement with this. The thought of having the mage to himself, though, the bundled optimism, humour, affection and energy, riddled as it was with dark and dangerous power... It was not unpleasant. So long as he didn't have to watch Anders direct that energy elsewhere.

"Sorry," the human chuckled. "I'm not teasing, I promise. I... would like that. My life is yours and Hawke's alone, my friend, should you ever decide to take it." He leaned in, as though for another embrace, then seemed to think better of it. "We should leave it like that. You're no Orlesian maiden to tumble in some roadside inn."

"You've got that right," Fenris hissed, anger flaring.

The mage backed up a pace, lifting his hands and bowing his head. "I am yours," he said again. "To do with as you will, when you will."

Long ago, saying that would have resulted in Anders ending up in the Waking Sea. Now it meant that Fenris crossed his arms tightly and watched with a smouldering glare as the mage picked up his staff and walked away.

_Fereldans_, the elf scoffed distastefully.

/.\./.\

The remainder of their journey across the Silent Plains was unremarkable, apart from Fenris' growing frustration with himself, Anders, the Warden, the dwarves and the world in general. Absurdly, he wished that he could remember more about his mother. Surely, she would have given him some wisdom with which to deal with this kind of scenario.

_Mother_, he thought, _what should I do when my lover, the man I stood by for over six years, against everything from mages, to demons, to my own convictions, is kidnapped by my former master and I start to fall in lo—lust with my rival, a mage and an abomination, while we're on the hunt to find him?_

On second thought, perhaps it was for the best that he didn't have a mother to ask.

The Warden and the dwarves, even thick-skinned Tenka, had taken to avoiding the elf in his black moods. Anders, the bastard, remained quietly by his side, implacable and gently chiding whenever Fenris let slip with some unreasonable harshness toward one of their companions. Fenris struggled between need and dislike. Part of him was becoming ever fonder of the mage and the rest of his mind thrashed like a fish on a line.

Only once did they embrace again, also instigated by Fenris. Following a battle with some large, land-bound birds equipped with wicked spurs on their hind feet, Fenris' anxiety had been allayed by the rush of the fight. When the Warden left them alone in the wagon, he had shoved Anders against one of the empty barrels and asserted his newly discovered possession over the man. The mage, after a moment of surprise and that strange guilty look, which Fenris could only blame on Anders' obsession with Hawke, had responded with gratifyingly emphatic desire.

Had Dog not interrupted them, scrambling and clawing his way back into the wagon, Fenris didn't know how far that could have gone. He didn't like that Anders waited for him to decide what they would do, when, and how. If the mage had pressed him, Fenris could have pushed back, called it off, reacted in anger and distaste at the other man's needs... But Anders didn't. He waited for Fenris to come to him and gracefully accepted him and gave the elf what he asked for. Because of this, Fenris could blame no one but himself.

If the Warden noticed any of this turbulent storm between his two unstable companions, he wisely didn't mention anything, though he did visit the other wagons more frequently and start a Diamondback tourney with Tenka and her two consorts. Tenka, to Fenris' chagrin, slanted more sly glances in their direction and her advances on Anders conspicuously vanished.

They left the Silent Plains after nearly two weeks of slow travel, but none the worse for wear. When the northern horizon materialized in darkness and hills, Fenris felt a surge of guilt and worry for Hawke. While the man was in Danarius' hands, Fenris had been crawling across the desert and pining over the abomination, of all people.

"The Tevinter Imperium," Anders remarked thoughtfully. He strode at Fenris' side. In the early morning, the desert heat and light wasn't so terrible, so the two of them could stretch their legs before their confinement in the wagon. "We'll be on our own again, soon, and we'll need to think of something to keep the Imperials off of you and the Warden." His expression was dark and grim when he looked at the elf.

Fenris' stomach roiled at the reminder. Free elves were free game, and one with his lyrium markings would be especially targeted. He would either have to masquerade as a slave or fight every mile to Minrathous. Neither option appealed to him.

"At least we can enjoy the comforts of civilization again before we need to worry about it," the mage offered, bearing a half-smile. "Drink and food with no sand in it, a bath, a real bed, some privacy."

Fenris stared straight ahead. The way his thoughts had turned, he didn't need Anders' innuendo.

The air soon softened with humidity, thin clouds and thin grass appeared, and the entire group, dwarves, elves and human, roared their approval when they spotted their first small, stunted tree. Tenka sent one of her nephews to pour a flask of water on it; a tradition of all the caravans for luck and prosperity.

The land evolved into dry grasslands, crackling from the wind. It was like another sea for them to cross.

The border between Nevarra and the Tevinter Imperium was marked by a small town with a temporary feel, at a fork where the Imperial Highway split, one route going to the north west and the other east. The caravan hauled itself inside the town's walls just before the gates closed for the night, the brontos bellowing for their suppers and the dwarves not much quieter.

Tenka invited them to join the dwarves for drinks and games at her favourite establishment. Fenris and Anders gracefully declined, or at least Anders did it for them, but the Warden happily obliged her, stating that it was his last chance to win back his money.

"Don't wait up for me," the Warden said to his companions. "If I'm not with you in the morning, you'll find me in a ditch."

"Probably naked," Tenka added with a wicked grin.

Dog whined.

So Fenris and Anders, alone once again, a tense silence between them, found an inn. They ate and drank together and Fenris had trouble swallowing under Anders' watchful eye. The elf was reminded strongly of his last night with Hawke, before Danarius strode out of his nightmares and stole away his happiness. Was that what would happen here? Would he reach out to take what he wanted and lose everything?

The inn's common room, a blend of Tevinter and Nevarran voices, full of smoky warmth and desert sand, moved around them and their quiet stillness. Fenris was aware of hostile eyes on him, curious and speculative gazes of people unused to elves sitting at tables and drinking with humans. They set him even more on edge and he felt that his neck would wind itself in knots as he tried to maintain his vigilance on the other people and his own, unpredictable companion.

Someone made a particularly loud comment about knife-ears and sitting under tables. Fenris barely noticed, but Anders heard and his face twisted in anger that startled the elf. He reached out and grabbed the mage's wrist before he could stand up and start yet another fight.

"Get used to it," he said, low and flat.

Anders moved his jaw and shook his head. "I don't think I can."

Fenris spoke without thinking. "Then we'll go upstairs."

It looked, for a moment, like Anders was going to refuse. He stared at Fenris with an unhappy expression. Then he smiled gently and twisted his hand so that he could find skin beyond the cuff of Fenris' gauntlet. "I'd like that."

Their room wasn't especially luxurious, furnished with three grass-stuffed beds, a table and a chipped wash basin, but it had a lock on the door and neither dwarves nor the Warden.

Anders seemed nervous, for all that he was some experienced lover. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, his eyes cast down at some point on the floor. Fenris felt uneasy himself. He wasn't at the tail end of some battle high or soaked in the mysteries of moon or starlight. The only thing running through his veins was blood and predictions of a terrible future for all three of them. Here was Anders, alone and vulnerable, willing and wanting, and all Fenris had to do was reach out and take him. But would he be the owner or the owned? Would Anders gain some power over him? Would Hawke forgive him or be as pleased as Anders suggested? Would Fenris forgive himself for letting his heart split?

"Flames take me," he finally sighed, exasperated at himself. "The Warden was right. I am a thirteen-year-old sheep-girl."

Anders laughed, obviously startled. "He called you that?" he asked, eyes crinkling in a smile. At Fenris' nod, he added, "And he's still alive?"

"For now." Fenris folded his arms and turned away, gazing at the window and the lights of the desert town. "It's only a matter of time until we get beyond King Alistair's reach."

"I'd be more worried about Zevran," Anders admitted. "The Crows are no joke and he's got them all beat." From the corner of an eye, Fenris watched the mage lean his staff against the wall and seat himself on one of the beds. He braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, staring down at his laced hands. The sight made Fenris frown; the man was just _so_ vulnerable.

"We're not here to talk about the Warden," Fenris said, growing annoyed.

"Then what would you like to talk about?" Anders looked up, expression bemused. "I am at your disposal, mesere angry elf."

"I'm not an angry elf."

"You aren't happy, either. What do you want, Fenris?" He held up a hand to forestall Fenris' immediate answer. "Hawke and Danarius' death aren't the answers. We're working on that. What do you want from me?"

He gripped his upper arms tightly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Then don't talk."

Fenris looked back and snorted at Anders' lazy smile.

"Show me," the mage added. He indicated himself. "I am willing. I will give you everything you want, should it be within my power."

"Like a deal with a demon," Fenris said, but without heat.

"But your soul already belongs to someone else. You're safe from my evil influence." The mage reached out, welcoming. _Take me_, his body language said loudly. _Take me and make me yours._

It was difficult to swallow and the room, once cool, had become warm and stuffy. Fenris shifted uncomfortably and licked his dry lips. He was drawn, drawn like a moth to Andraste's Flames. His arms loosened. He stepped hesitantly closer. Instead of taking Anders' hand, he let the backs of his claws trail up the man's arm and to the mage's face. Anders' eyelids lowered and his expression became slightly dazed. The elf sidled close enough to place a leg on either side of Anders' knees and seat himself there.

This kiss was sweet, shallow, lacking the anger and desperation of their previous encounters. Fenris carefully held Anders' shoulders, giving him ample opportunity to push or pull away, but Anders didn't. The mage let himself be kissed, with barely a sound, barely a movement.

When they parted, Anders' released a long and shaking breath. He laughed slightly. "If I touch you now, will you run away?"

"No."

Broad, warm human hands settled on his knees and stroked upward, pressing the tight muscle of Fenris' thighs to his hips. The elf trembled slightly, as his body tried to resist and flee from the intrusion. Under his clothing, the veins of lyrium left him sensitive and reactive to both pleasure and pain. The two so often mingled together. He remained, though, and cupped the mage's skull to bring their lips together again.

Heat built between them, agonizingly slow. Hawke would have cracked by now; his quick fingers would have unbuckled and unsnapped Fenris' armour before the elf really knew what was going on. Anders, though, let Fenris lead, and Fenris still didn't know if this was right, if this was real. Though the riotous needs of his heart and body would soon overpower his mind and the scraps of honour to which he clung.

When Fenris tried to pick the tie out of Anders' blond hair, the mage finally turned his head to murmur, "May I?" Though, instead of removing the tie himself, he took Fenris' hand in his and removed the tall gauntlet. The other followed shortly after, landing somewhere on the floor.

Sometimes Fenris forgot the novel sensations of fine hairs, feathers, clothes, skin. He took his time exploring Anders, eventually undoing the toggles of Anders' coat and helping the mage out of it. Following his fingers went his lips and then the slightest touch of his tongue, surreptitiously tasting the salt here and there on Anders' neck and shoulders; wherever his shirt didn't cover.

Anders' touch on his hips rose to confront the elf's belts, unbuckling and removing them. Fenris did not protest. Blunt fingers pushed aside fabric and fastenings and finally grazed bare skin. The elf stiffened and caught his breath at the unfamiliar intrusion.

Anders stilled and looked up warily. He was flushed, his hair loose, his lower lip red and gnawed, his eyes so dark as he gazed at Fenris' face. "I can feel it," he said hoarsely. "The lyrium. Does it hurt?"

"Not really. It just..." He didn't finish. Those soft touches would drive him insane. He yearned for Hawke's hard, callused hands, the clash of intimacy with another warrior. Anders was so much the same yet so different, his taste, the feel of him, the peculiar scent of magic, like something out of a dream.

Anders stroked him again, sending sparks and chills from his waist to go screaming through every limb. The elf grunted with the sudden surge of need and desire and pressed himself against Anders' broader form, lowering his head to claim that mouth, his strong fingers tearing the last of Anders' layers away and revealing pale, warm skin.

He wasn't sure which of them broke first, giving up the facade of gentility and grace. The mage groaned and pulled Fenris down atop him, the two of them tangling in each other and their partially discarded clothing. Fenris' breast plate clattered to the floor, followed by his shoulder guards and his tunic. Then, bare-skinned, he curved over his prone mage and took what he wanted. Anders arched up to meet him and the lyrium in Fenris' skin sang at the feel of so much bare flesh against his own.

"I want you," Anders panted in Fenris' long ear.

Fenris could feel it, pressure and hardness meeting his own, the two of them grinding together wantonly, their dignity as absent as their clothing.

The warrior didn't answer in words. He reached down and squeezed Anders' long-ignored erection, watching with delicious satisfaction as the mage gasped and his face spasmed, eyes tightly closed. The sight made him twitch and pulse. He grinned wolfishly and did it again, firmly stroking through the loose material of Anders' trousers.

After a minute of this treatment, Anders managed to curse and complain, "You are a cruel man! Take me if you will, but don't toy with me!"

"As you wish."

Fenris reared back and rose on his knees to pull down his own pants. Anders surged up, wrapped his arms around the elf's lean body and put his mouth on the silvery lyrium that writhed across Fenris' ribs. The elf paused, frozen in sensation, and allowed the mage to worship him in this manner, laying kisses in a trail along the muscles of his stomach and waist. Finally, Anders pushed Fenris hands aside and dealt with the elf's clothing himself, stripping it away with careful expedience.

"I nearly expected more lyrium," Anders said, smirking up.

"Shut up, Anders."

"As you wish," the mage replied mockingly and, without further conversation, demonstrated what he had learned from the Circle in Ferelden.

"Maker," Fenris groaned, clutching and doubling over Anders' head. Here was something of which Hawke was not overly fond. The unexpected heat, warmth and moisture enveloped him and he nearly fell over.

Anders got him to the point where he was panting, shaking and thrusting with abandon, before the mage pulled away, shiny-lipped, and toppled the elf sideways. Fenris, so close to completion, snarled and tried to pounce, but Anders subdued him with a few steady pulls and a glance that promised more.

The mage lay himself beside the elf and murmured, "You won't punch me if I use a small spell? It might ruin the mood."

Fenris tried to say something, but it came out as some bestial noise. He clawed the tangled sheets on which he sprawled.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Anders said. He ducked his head to kiss his Tevinter lover, his hand still moving on Fenris' slick and throbbing desire. When his touch warmed and seemed to ooze, Fenris barely noticed, but that he was aware of some magic being cast.

"Fereldans," the elf managed to mutter.

"We're a resourceful people," Anders answered. With a slippery hand, he tugged at the last of his clothing.

Fenris rolled over to help and somehow wound up on top, gazing down at the expanse of naked mage. He took a moment to observe the pale flesh, less muscular and defined than the battle-hardened Hawke and his own lean form, but of pleasing quality, nonetheless. Anders didn't give him much opportunity to look, though, before he dragged Fenris back down and demanded, with touch and breath, that the elf get on with it and ease both their plights.

Fenris was only too happy to oblige.

He took Anders ruthlessly, causing both men to cry out from the sharp and sudden pain. He felt brief guilt, then there was a rush of healing coolness. A short laugh worked itself out of his throat. "Mages aren't all bad," he admitted.

Anders, eyes closed, arms, legs and body tight, so tight, around Fenris, chuckled into the elf's neck. "Was hoping you'd say that," he panted. He shoved himself down, hard, taking more. Then an eyelid cracked, and the iris behind it glowed faintly blue. "It's only gonna get more fun." He shuddered, then, as Fenris made a preliminary thrust, and amended, "Just, maybe, not tonight."

It was somewhat gratifying to know that Fenris could disrupt the mage's ability to cast. The elf lay the other man back and rutted violently into him, urged past good sense and restraint by Anders' encouraging noises and the blunt nails clawing into his shoulders. With the suddenness of a sand storm, all of the pressure spiked, burst, and he choked his climax into Anders' welcoming body.

He blacked out for a heartbeat, everything becoming fuzzy and distant. When he came to, Anders' hand was between their bodies, moving swiftly to bring himself to completion. Fenris weakly tried to help, but Anders wouldn't let him.

"It's okay," the mage panted. "Maker, I can feel you inside me." He jerked, once, twice, and came all over his fist, his stomach and Fenris' chest.

They collapsed together, sweaty and slippery and utterly exhausted. Fenris, not really one for cuddling, disengaged and shifted sideways. The bed was narrow, though, and he didn't want to stand, so he abided the length of Anders' leg against his own and the man's arm in the narrow gap between the small of his back and the mattress.

"It's been a long time," Anders said after a few moments of heavy breathing.

Fenris didn't look up. "The Orlesian? The apostate?"

He felt the mage shrug. "Not the same. Being with another man. Like that. You're... That was nice. Very, very nice."

"Complicated," Fenris replied drowsily. "This will make things complicated."

It wasn't quite a caress, but something brushed past Fenris' hair.

"Not for long," the mage assured him. For some reason, he sounded sad.

Fenris didn't have long to ponder the odd tone, though, as drowsiness bled into sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Warnings**: Oh, gawd, the angst just kills me. Literally. One of the reasons why I'm so excited about these chapters is because I was getting a little teary-eyed while writing them. Also some cuddling, some kissing, etc.

**Author's Note**: Written last night, when I was alone in the dark listening to sad music. Can you tell?

**Disclaimer**: Not mine! I take no responsibility!

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Anders hadn't really expected sunshine and kittens upon waking, but he had at least hoped that Fenris would still be there. However, when Anders opened his gummy eyes at some point in the night, the elf was gone. He sighed, groaned at the residual ache in his body, and wished that he could just roll over and go back to sleep in his messy sheets and deal with everything in the morning. However, he really had to piss.

With some hissing and mincing, Anders got himself partially dressed and out of the room, observing that he had probably scared Fenris away through body odour alone. Maker, he needed a bath.

The inn was dark and quiet, other than the two torches burning in the courtyard and the banked embers in the common room. The mage carefully made his way to the privy. Though he kept an eye out for Fenris' lithe figure, he was too tired to really get his hopes up. They would talk again in the morning, anyway. For now, the elf could have his time to himself.

After his oblations, Anders shuffled back to the inn. Then he heard scuffling feet on cobbles, grunting, smothered shouts, and that peculiar sound of a weapon hitting flesh. He sighed. He debated the benefits of getting involved. He finally decided that chances were good that, if anyone was going to get into a fight, it would be a very unstable elf with a very large sword.

_In more ways than one_, he thought with an internal wince.

The sounds of fighting led him around the building, to another yard where wagons and carriages could be loaded and unloaded. He wasn't too concerned, knowing that Fenris was more than capable of handling himself. So, when he turned the corner, he was shocked and horrified when he met with the sight of the Tevinter elf on the receiving end of those blows. Fenris was caught in a crushing prison, held by not one, but _two,_ mages, and a trio of nasty-looking fighters appeared to be taking turns beating the shit out of him.

Justice, for all his faults, certainly helped with Anders' reaction time. The mage was suffused in a blind rage that would have done Fenris proud. He didn't even have a chance to heal or buff himself before fury sent damaging magical energy through his body and lashed out at the five slavers. One mage was immediately petrified, his pitiful shielding no match for vengeance. One of the fighters froze solid and the two others writhed from violent, crackling electricity. The second mage put up more of a fight, managing to knock Anders sideways with a concussive explosion. Her victory was short-lived, though, as he called up his new spell and blasted her with gust after gust of sand, until the skin of her face tore away and she fell, screaming in agony, to the ground.

Fenris slumped to his knees when the mages released him, obviously weak and nearly finished. He managed to get to his unsteady feet, draw his sword and smash the frozen fighter, though, while Anders made short work of the petrified mage. This left the two electrocuted fighters. One lay curled on the ground, groaning. The other, apparently with a higher fortitude, got back to his feet and pointed an uncertain sword at the two rather angry, glowing men. After a moment, he dropped the blade.

"Mercy?" he said.

"Is there such a thing?" Anders asked, his throat rough with Justice and lack of sleep. "You would show none."

"We just... slaves are goin' expensive now," the man said, as though that was an appropriate defence. "After that magister came through and bought 'em all out. And you're the one who let yours wander about."

"What magister?" Fenris asked.

The man looked from the elf to Anders, perhaps expecting Anders to object to his "slave" speaking out of turn.

"You'd better answer him," Anders advised. Justice was leaking away, leaving him weak, tired and very annoyed. He leaned on his staff and raised his brows. "You have about two seconds before he caves your head in."

"I don't know," the slaver hurriedly whined. "Some magister, pure blood Tevinter. Week and a half ago, he comes tearing out of the desert and most of his mules are dead. So he bought more. Bought out the town."

"A week and a half," Fenris groaned. "Which way did he go?"

The man seemed to be regaining some of his natural confidence and stupidity. He drew himself up and spat, "Give me a reason to answer you, knife-ear."

"If you don't, I'll start at your feet."

"Er. North-west. Toward Minrathous."

"...Predictable." A troubled expression passed over the elf's face. "Too predictable."

"He wants you to follow him," Anders suggested, shrugging. "Why wouldn't he go the direct route? Just remember... you have advantages that he doesn't."

Fenris regarded the mage. "Which are?"

Seeing the elf's distraction, the slaver turned on his heel and sprinted toward the far side of the yard and the shadowy entrance to the street. Anders swallowed a sigh and shot him with a stone fist.

"Me," he answered when the body had stopped moving. Then he offered a smile, hoping to charm away some of Fenris' concern. "And the Warden and Dog. They're moderately useful."

Fenris scoffed, but there seemed to be some easing of his frown.

Now came the hard part. Anders coughed, shifted uncomfortably, and asked, "Did I... do something wrong? You left."

"I just needed some air. Some time to think." Fenris shrugged. "This won't be easy."

Anders snorted gently. "Maker help us if something should be easy," he drawled. "Elf, love is as easy as you make it."

"I know you can be very easy, abomination."

"I'm hurt." Anders placed a hand over his heart. "Right here." He was only half-joking. He was starting to get the impression that Fenris thought he was something of a harlot. In reality, he just wanted to be wanted, needed to be needed. "What I mean is that, if this is something you want, you can have it. I ask nothing more than that you trust me. I won't hurt you." That last part was difficult to say, but Anders had become a very, very good liar over his years.

Fenris sighed and shook his head. He looked as tired as Anders felt, though, and he finally nodded. "We will see."

They retired together, finally, though each to their own bed. Anders tried to stay awake and listen to Fenris breathe, but the mage was past the point where that was an option.

/.\./.\

The Warden was waiting for them the next morning, his golden eyes squinted against the light and a rather pained expression on his narrow face. When he saw Anders and Fenris, he looked delighted. "Anders," he cried, "I have this terrible head ache-"

"No," Anders replied immediately. "I don't heal hangovers."

"Fenris," the Warden pleaded, "can't you reason with him?"

"The abomination has no comprehension of such things as 'reason'," Fenris informed him. He sat and graced the Warden with his amusement. "I see that you lost to Tenka's crew again."

"How can you tell?"

"There's no shirt under your armour, Warden. And Dog is wearing a bow. A pink bow." Fenris reached out and tugged an end of the shiny ribbon. "What do you think of your brother-at-arm's poor judgement?" he asked the beast.

Dog whined.

Fenris nodded. "I agree, my friend."

Anders looked on and shook his head with some disbelief. After waking, he and Fenris hadn't really talked much. They kept their own counsel as they enjoyed the inn's meagre bathing facilities and cleaned their clothing as well as possible. The mage only noticed now that Fenris seemed relaxed. One could even say that he was in a _good_ _mood_.

The Warden seemed to notice as well, judging by his smug and significant glances in Anders' direction, at least when he wasn't covering his eyes and cursing the dwarves.

As they broke their fast, they discussed their next move.

"Danarius is heading directly for Minrathous," Fenris said.

"You found some more information?"

The Tevinter elf smiled darkly. "You could say that." They related the night's adventure, at least that part of it, to the Warden.

"I don't doubt that that will happen again," the Warden said seriously. "We can't afford to wander alone."

"Indeed. It seems that just being here puts a limit on my freedom." Fenris considered his drink.

"It's a bit of the opposite for me," Anders interjected. When Fenris lifted an eyebrow, the mage shrugged. "Fewer Templars."

"Way to look at the bright side," the Warden said cheerily, then winced and covered his eyes. "Right. We need horses, fast ones, and whatever supplies we need to sleep on the road as required."

"Must we?" Anders asked plaintively. After spending most of his life in the Circle, he really preferred a bed. Especially if things between him and Fenris were to continue as they were. As romantic as a roll in the grass sounded in a ballad, all Anders could think of was the number of insects that could get involved.

"We may not have a choice," Fenris answered. "And I imagine Hawke wouldn't object to sleeping on the ground to save your life."

"No, but I'm sure he'd complain. Loudly." Anders waved down any further reproach from his companion. "I know. I will do what I must."

They finished eating and went to acquire their supplies. Anders felt a bit strange, as Fenris and the Warden fell back to flank him, as though they had come to a silent consensus about allowing the human to lead. The mage honestly didn't know where to go first, and the Warden had to nudge him and nod toward a row of booths in the marketplace that sold horse flesh. Again, Anders just gazed on the beasts, absolutely baffled, and the Warden finally had to go forward and examine the merchandise.

"You'd make a terrible master," Fenris observed as they stood back and watched the Warden.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Anders responded.

"Good."

When the Warden finally found three beasts to his liking, Anders had to negotiate the sale because the merchant would neither listen to nor address the Warden directly. So, with the Warden whispering in his ear, Anders bought their horses.

The rest of the day followed suit. Anders, with the two elves behind him, had to stumble his way through selling and purchasing what they needed. Their group received some curious glances, possibly because the two elves were armed, possibly because the entire town had a dearth of slave flesh, but no one accosted them. Even so, it was with a glad heart that Anders finally led his companions out through the north-west gates and back onto the Imperial Highway.

"We should be able to get in a few good hours before nightfall," the Warden said, shading his eyes and peering toward the horizon.

"More calluses," Anders sighed. "Good."

However, before they had gone far, Fenris reined his mount to a stop and turned his face to the south.

"Fenris?" Anders asked. The dark elf was staring at a thin track through the grass, leading away from the highway. A rough wooden sign post had been hammered into the earth beside it, with unfamiliar symbols burned into it.

"A bone pit," Fenris said. "I want to look at it."

If it was important enough to delay their rescue, that was enough for Anders to agree. He nodded. "All right."

The track took them through long grasses, probably full of insects, then up a long hill that abruptly terminated in a deep, rocky pit. In the growing evening gloom, it was difficult to discern at first, but amongst the rocks were the grey lengths of bones. Humanoid bones. Slave bones. Though this wasn't on the scale of Hawke's old mine, the Bone Pit, there was still a considerable number of remains.

Anders didn't know what to say as they sat on their horses at the edge of that mass grave. Fenris stared at the pit, his expression inscrutable. Was he thinking about the possibility that he would wind up here? Or was he thinking about family, friends, other elves?

"There," the elf said, claw extended to the far side of the pit. By squinting, Anders could see a fresh cairn. "The slaves that Danarius destroyed to come here. If any were still alive, he would have allowed them to come here and build their own graves before they died."

_Maker._ Stab, stab, stab went Anders' conscience, in time with his heart beat. "That's horrible," he whispered.

"They died carrying Hawke," Fenris added.

"That doesn't help."

They stared in silence. Then Fenris drew in a breath and turned his horse's head. Anders followed. With the Warden in the lead, they picked their way back to the highway.

After a short time, the sun descended past the horizon in front of them and they stopped for the night. Of the three, Anders was the least experienced with camping, so he mostly sat around feeling useless until the Warden kindly asked the mage to make fire, boil water and cook their meal.

"Great," Anders said, "I've been reduced to a domestic."

"I'd say that's an improvement," Fenris commented over the back of the horse he was brushing. "I like my meat rare, abomination. Don't over cook it."

"I'll over cook your meat, all right," Anders grumbled, but without any heat behind the words. His guilty conscience, coupled with the image of the bone pit, made him do everything in his power to provide Fenris everything the elf could possibly want.

They bed down on thin blankets in the grass, tucked snugly together under a small canvas tent. Anders was uncomfortable with how many spiders were probably already in his hair and how Dog kept licking... something. The elves were quiet and still, at least, though that just annoyed him because it made him feel like he was about fifty times more loud and incompetent than they were. He rolled onto one side and then another, then spent a few minutes staring at Fenris' face, tucked in the crook of the elf's elbow and partially obscured by his white hair. If they were alone, he would reach out and caress the strong, dark lines, perhaps brush his thumb over the lyrium below the elf's lip, maybe lean over and kiss him, but the Warden was there and there was no way to tell if he was listening or not.

"Go to sleep, Anders," Fenris said, one eye cracking open and gleaming in the faint light from the dying fire just past their feet. A hand, still gauntleted, though Anders couldn't imagine trying to sleep in armour, snaked from under the Tevinter elf's blanket and shoved Anders' shoulder, pushing the mage over. Before Anders could feel too dejected, the elf curled his thin, strong arm around him and then hauled him back into his breast plate.

_Is he... spooning me?_ Anders couldn't remember the last time that anyone had held him in such a way. And he had never, in all his wildest fantasies, imagined that Fenris would be the type. Gingerly, not wishing to make Fenris change his mind, Anders shifted until he was more comfortable, pillowing his head on his arm and letting the weight of Fenris' armoured arm rest on his waist and stomach. When he stilled, he could feel the very faint tickle of Fenris' light breath in the hairs at the back of his neck. Perhaps the nights wouldn't be so terrible, after all. _Though_, he thought before drifting off, _this would be far better without the spikes._

/.\./.\

They travelled in this fashion for several days. Though Anders besought his companions to stay at one of the highway's small towns or inns, they refused, both to save time and to avoid other people. They only stopped to buy more supplies and, once, to replace one of the horses.

As they drew closer to Vol Dorma, Anders lost his appetite and found it more and more difficult to sleep, especially as Fenris seemed to grow more comfortable with their closeness. The Warden, as was his way, never mentioned what he may have seen or heard of the intimacy between his fellow travellers. When possible, he let them draw away from him or lag behind, to offer what little privacy he could without endangering any of them. It would have been pleasant, were it not that Anders knew this journey, with all of its terrors, discovers, and ecstasies, was soon to come to an end.

The Warden noticed Anders' distraction before Fenris brought it up. The pale-skinned elf drew his horse beside Anders' and asked, "Do you worry what will happen when you've recovered your Champion?"

Anders jumped. That was exactly what worried him, though not in the way the Warden meant. "You make it sound like a sure thing," he replied, trying to project some humour. "We still have leagues of Imperium, thousands of warriors, mages and magisters to get through."

"We'll get through them," the Warden said. "Between you, Fenris and myself, I don't think anything can stop us."

Anders laughed hollowly.

Fenris glanced back and slowed his own mount to join their conversation. "You are concerned," he said, studying Anders' face.

Anders wanted to die, then. Why had Fenris become this... this creature of devotion, courage, intelligence and skill? Where was the angry, paranoid, mage-hating monster? Why had Anders pursued him? Everything was wrong. Everything was terrible.

And there was nothing he could do. They couldn't leave this path when Hawke was at the end of it, waiting for them.

"Calluses," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Fenris smirked. "They might come in handy, yet."

The Warden made a noise halfway between a cough and a laugh. "Excuse me," he said politely and urged his horse forward. "Come on, Dog."

"That's not what's bothering you," Fenris observed when the Warden was far enough away. "You've been changing, Anders. Something sits in your mind. Is it Justice?"

In a manner of speaking, yes. But Anders couldn't explain that. The only thing Justice was doing was trying to convince him that he was doing the right thing.

"Just thinking ahead," he tried. "I don't... I don't know how to explain it."

"Ah. Well, if you need to talk about it, I will listen."

Fenris' words could have been his ethereal hand, crushing Anders' heart. The mage would have preferred it; he could have happily run himself off of a cliff at that moment. "Thank-you," he whispered lamely.

They rode for a silent moment. Then the elf leaned over, caught the shoulder of Anders' coat, and pulled the mage over for a brief, hard kiss. Just as quickly, he released the man and hurried to catch up with the Warden.

_Flames take me_, Anders thought bitterly, reaching up to touch his lips.

The land they rode through was as beautiful as the elf. As they travelled north, the air had warmed considerably, but somehow avoided mugginess. Trees, grass, bushes, farmland and the occasional garden were all a rich, verdant green. Life bloomed around them, as though mocking the death on which the Tevinter Imperium had built itself through its long history. The highway itself was in good repair and populated by clean, well-behaved merchants and peasants, some accompanied by large-eyed elves, all of them under the careful watch of highway patrols. Though none of them interfered with the small group, Anders could feel their curiosity. Fenris had given him only a few lessons on slavery in the Imperium, but he knew that armed slaves were uncommon, especially ones tattooed with lyrium. It was a sign of prestige for their master; namely, Anders.

That had been an awkward conversation. Anders couldn't master himself, much less anyone else.

On their last night before attaining Vol Dorma, Anders was nearly beside himself with misery. The day ahead yawned before him like a dark abyss, into which everything he loved and cherished would soon crumble. In his mind's eye, he tried to hold onto an image of Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, the most wonderful and heroic and frustrating and terrible man to stride on the Maker's green earth. That image flickered, though, wildly and erratically. He didn't know if it was an effect of his own guilt or something else.

_You don't have a choice_, he told himself. _There are no choices, no compromise. What's done... is done._ Like the Chantry, the Circle, the war; like everything Anders had ever done and regretted.

"We may get word of Danarius in Vol Dorma," he said, with the odd sensation that someone else was talking through him.

The Warden nodded. "We'll need to be careful, though. If I were Danarius, that's where I would leave... gifts for Fenris."

"Strange that there haven't been more before now," Fenris commented. "I wonder what Danarius is planning. I will not underestimate him again."

They sat around a small fire in a clean, well-used camping site. Somewhere not too far away was another site, occupied by oxen and cabbages, by the sound and smell of it. As usual, Anders had prepared a meal, and they ate in thoughtful silence. For the first time, Anders wondered what the Warden thought about when all was quiet. Though he professed to miss his Antivan Crow, he never really talked about the man. Most of his motivation seemed to come from some sense of adventure and a desire for loot.

"I'm sure we'll find out tomorrow," the Warden suddenly said. Those golden eyes glimmered as he regarded Anders over the fire. Was that a look of accusation? Or was he just asking for verification, an opinion? Something innocent?

"Perhaps," Fenris said, apparently not noticing the Warden and Anders' silent exchange. "Hopefully we won't destroy another tavern in the process." The elf leaned back against his saddle, lacing his hands behind his head. Dog, that great beast, yawned and rolled himself snuggly against the elf's side. The Tevinter gazed down at the animal with a bemused smile and scratched the erect ears.

The sight of that easy fondness was like tacks under Anders' fingernails. The mage muttered something about cleaning up and escaped the circle of light.

He stayed away for some time, taking comfort from the darkness and the rustle of the cool night wind in the lush foliage around them. Briefly, he thought about how many enemies could hide out there, but it was more of a comforting thought than anything else. If they were attacked, way laid, if he were killed... Then he wouldn't have to confront himself and his own actions.

They weren't attacked, though. Instead, Fenris came to him in the darkness, away from the Warden and the light, and murmured sounds of need and wanting. Anders bit back his sorrow and swallowed it as he swallowed the elf, taking in the bitter and the sweet, the love and the guilt, the mercy and the justice.

/.\./.\

The morning they entered Vol Dorma was already warm and smelled like rain. Anders hadn't slept at all. He had lain awake and felt Fenris behind him and the weight of his arm, tasted the elf on his tongue, listened to him, and realized that what he held in his aching heart was love. Not just lust and need, not friendship, not companionship, not respect or simple admiration; but a tangle of all of them and more, like yarn wrapped all around and inside of him, strangling him.

_Maker, help me_, he prayed, though not once in Anders' years had the Maker ever answered His cursed child.

Anders let the Warden dictate where they would go, though the human had to lead and try not to make it too obvious that an elf was giving him directions. The mage felt like he was in a dream or a nightmare, moving sluggishly in a grey world, like the Fade, but without the knowledge that he could act to change what was going to happen.

As was their habit, they found a tavern in which to rest and eat a lunch that tasted like ashes. Anders was aware that both elves were watching him, but he couldn't lift his eyes from his meal. He overheard the Warden talking to another servant or slave, a young male human. The Warden asked the usual questions, about magisters and mages, and the boy answered that, yes, Danarius was staying in the home of another magister, Linneia. He and his retinue had been in Vol Dorma for a little over a week, resting and working at the University with a new subject.

Anders felt Fenris stiffen. Anders' heart sped up in sympathy.

When the Warden returned, Fenris immediately hissed, "I think I know who his new subject is."

"What do they do at the University?" the Warden asked.

As answer, Fenris stuck out his arm, displaying the lyrium in his dark skin. "We need to get him before it's too late. If it isn't already." His face fell into a deep frown. "I fear what we may find," he admitted, as he had admitted to Anders a small eternity before.

"It's only been a week," Anders said. "Do you remember Keran? He was at the mercy of blood mages for far longer and he was fine."

"Blood mages," Fenris spat. "Amateurs. Danarius is a magister."

"What choice do we have? I doubt Hawke would appreciate us abandoning him when we've come so far, merely because we suspect that Danarius performed some tests on him." Anders tried to smile, but he felt sick.

The Tevinter elf glared for a moment longer, then sighed. "You are correct, of course. We will... we will go to him and see what has become of our Hawke." He lifted a hand and rubbed his forehead, eyes closed in thought and emotion. Anders wanted to reach out to him, but didn't dare. "We'll need to find out where Hawke is being kept. Break him out. And once he's safe, I can... I can kill Danarius. Again." His fists slammed on the heavy table and Anders heard an ominous crack from the old, scarred wood. The young servant and a handful of other patrons looked over. "I couldn't fight him before," the elf snarled, mostly to himself. "If I face him..."

The time had come. Anders swallowed and said, "I have an idea."

/.\./.\

"You're sure this will work?" Fenris asked dubiously, trying to peer down at the amulet around his neck. It was tight enough that he couldn't remove it without undoing the clasp, though not too tight to bind him.

"Not really," Anders replied honestly. "I'm not familiar with Tevinter magic. But the book mentioned that the control Danarius has over you can be blocked, and the merchant agreed, so... I hope it will?"

Fenris didn't look convinced and Anders didn't blame him. It had all been a little too convenient, that the second shopkeeper they went to had an amulet to block Tevinter magisters from exerting power over their bonded slaves. Granted, this had been in the dark underbelly of Vol Dorma, where runaway slaves went to hide and assassins went to find work, but the thin, nervous man had been just a little too eager to sell, too happy with the price Anders offered.

The two stood in an inn room, several streets away from the clump of university buildings that made up Vol Dorma's core. The city was a place of learning, academics, and experimentation. Most of this learning took place in the University. This meant that they needed to break in, fight their way through the Maker knew how many guards or students, find Hawke, and drag him out the same way. In all that, Fenris didn't seem to be able to decide if he wanted to face Danarius or not. The elf paced about, arguing one way or another. He didn't know that he didn't have the choice to decide.

"I don't think Danarius will be working through the night," Anders said. He folded his arms and leaned against the room's table, watching the elf pace. "If anything, one of his apprentices may be on guard."

"He knows I'm coming."

"He needs to sleep some time."

"You don't know him!" Fenris whirled on the mage and slashed the air with a clawed hand. "You don't know what he's capable of!"

"Then tell me," Anders said mildly. "Tell me what we should do."

"I... don't know." The elf sank down on one of the two beds and held his head. After a moment, he continued. "We don't have a choice, do we? The longer we wait, the more likely it is that Danarius will find me. Us." He looked up, his green eyes bright and tragic. "He'll find us," he repeated. "And what he would do to you, Anders..."

Anders shivered at the intensity in the elf's voice and the fear that trembled on his face. Fear _for_ Anders, not _of_ him. It was a novel sensation, and one he didn't want to feel just then.

"We won't let that happen," the mage said firmly, trying to banish his own dismay. "We have a map. We'll be in and out before he can find you."

Again, Fenris didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. He stared down at his fists, clenching and releasing, perhaps imagining what he would do to the man who made him what he was.

When the Warden joined them, Anders felt both relief and trepidation. The red-haired elf was still straightening his armour and weaponry. They had all re-equipped and re-supplied; Anders in particular had found a staff and accessories that would never be made available in Ferelden or the Free Marches, designed as they were to strengthen magic.

This battle would be unlike any they had faced together.

"Ready?" the Warden asked.

"No," Fenris responded morosely. He stood, though, and settled the massive axe that he had picked up in the slave-riddled black market ("It is Nameless," the elf had said, examining the dull grey metal.) more comfortably on his back. "But Hawke will not wait."

Anders nodded. "Then we go."


	14. Chapter 14

**Warnings**: May stab you in the heart. I recommend keeping a kitten handy.

**Author's Note**: Okay, here's the last one for now. Seriously, I didn't expect to turn this into an epic, but we're only, like, 2/3rds of the way through the story line that's leering at me ominously from the corner of my brain.

I wrote this part this morning, thinking to myself, "You know what my black, bitter coffee needs? MORE ANGST."

I wish I could work on my own novels with this much vigor. Bah. Anyway! I hope you enjoy. I'm going to TRY to focus on my own stuff for a while and knock it off with the daily spamming, since we're at such a good spot for a break, but I don't think this thing is through with me quite yet.

Apologies for errors. The author is a spazz. Maybe if I drink less coffee I'll stop writing about Fnesir and Adners.

**Disclaimer**: Um. I'm sorry.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Anders' map, picked up from some shifty ne'er-do-well in the dark places of Vol Dorma, led them to a small gate off of some insignificant alleyway that ran next to the University complex. It was most likely for the gardeners of the expansive grounds, judging by the pile of manure just outside. After some fiddling, the Warden got the door open and they were inside.

It was too easy. Alarms in Fenris' mind were blaring like the war horns of the Qunari. As he walked, everything was tense and electrified; even the bottoms of his feet tingled against the cold grass. He kept touching the amulet Anders had found for him, wondering over and over if it would actually work or if he would discover, yet again, that he was little more than a weapon in Danarius' hand. If Danarius made him turn on the mage, he hoped the Warden would help to bring him down. He couldn't bear the thought of harming Anders, not now.

When they approached the first building, an outbuilding with a tunnel to the main laboratories, Fenris shook his wandering thoughts from his mind. He had to focus.

The outbuilding was a greenhouse. In the dark, hot humidity, the group discovered that the experimental crops within were more war-like than agricultural. Vines wrapped around them, tore through leather and skin, poisoned them. The attack was unexpected enough that it left Fenris shaken; if Anders hadn't set most of the foliage on fire, they may have ended up as plant food. As it was, after some hacking at the lesser vines, they found the main trunk of the mass and Fenris put his axe to work.

"I don't think I've ever seen a plant _bleed_ before," Anders commented.

"I hate magisters," Fenris replied. He eyed what was left of the plant with disgust. He may have been mistaken, but within the flesh-coloured trunk there seemed to be organs.

"This way," the Warden interrupted, nodding his red head toward the far end of the large glass chamber.

They found the tunnel, stone-walled, dark and sombre, full of skeletons.

"The Circles weren't like this," the mage went on conversationally as they shattered one after another of the undead. "Though that may be why Tevinter magisters are more powerful; they had to learn fast and learn well so they could get between classes."

"Or this is just where they store their skeletons," the Warden suggested.

"I thought that was closets?"

Fenris rolled his eyes. _Fereldans._

They arrived in the basement of the main university building, under the labyrinth of examination rooms that filled the first and second floors. There was an unpleasant, metallic scent in the stale air that triggered hidden memories within Fenris. He had been here, once. And it had involved a considerable amount of pain.

Most of the halls were empty. Fenris' alertness and anxiety were rising to a fever pitch. His skin felt like it was trying to crawl off of his bones and his jaw hurt from clenching. Within his gauntlets, his hands were shaking and slick with sweat.

He wasn't the only one to feel this way. Anders seemed preoccupied and unhappy, even as he exchanged banter with the Warden. Of them all, only the pale elf seemed at all pleased with the culmination of their rescue attempt. He pointed out the peculiarly Tevinter architecture and happily rummaged through the rooms that they passed, collecting an assortment of old University teaching tools.

On the first floor, they finally encountered human guards. They couldn't have been more than students, though, and were easily dispatched. Anders made some comment about the pity of killing mages so young, but Fenris only shrugged. A good mage was a dead mage, in his mind. Being in the university seemed to be reversing the ameliorating effect that his relationship with Anders had had on his anti-mage sentiments.

They passed some few examination rooms and all were empty but one, which held a dead Qunari Saarebas, stripped of clothing and skin. Fenris passed by coldly, but Anders lingered, staring at the corpse in horror and disgust. The Warden had to drag him on.

After a set of stairs, a locked door and a room of demonic guardians, they attained the second floor.

"Perhaps in one of the lecture theatres," the Warden suggested, referring to their map.

"Danarius was working with an audience," Fenris muttered. The thought sickened him, all of those cruel eyes on Hawke while the magister worked on him.

Anders started walking in one direction and Fenris had to hurry to catch him.

"Don't wander off alone," the elf commanded, his voice strained. "Damnit, Anders, not in this place."

The mage jumped and looked at him guiltily. His face was ashen in the flickering torch light. He looked sick or feverish. "I...I'm sorry," he uttered.

Fenris pinned the man with a hard look, then turned back to where the Warden was investigating some doorways. The other elf trotted to them and shrugged.

"Nothing," he reported. "Anders was headed the right way."

They trailed along the circuitous halls in silence. Other than flames and some far off dripping noise, all was quiet.

_We're coming, Hawke_, Fenris repeated internally, more for his own benefit than out of any thought that the Champion could somehow hear him. He needed the reminder that, at the end of this journey, there was a man worth facing death itself.

They finally wound their way to the centre of the building and the main lecture hall. The Warden carefully opened the door and visibly started. Fenris crowded up behind him to see what was within.

The room was like another pit, rows upon rows of circular pews leading down to the lecture floor. Upon that floor was a table and upon that table lay Hawke, motionless beneath a white sheet.

"Maker," Fenris breathed. The sight of the man, now scruffy and gaunt, even at this distance, pummeled the elf's insides with a raging storm of emotions, from want to anger to fear to guilt. He gripped the haft of his axe.

Anders leaned forward, trying to push past the elves, but the Warden held up a hand to stop the man.

"Wouldn't you trap the place?" the Warden asked grimly. "I go first."

"A-all right," Anders stuttered.

Slowly, they made their way inside and down the narrow stairs to the main floor. Though Fenris strained his eyes and ears, he could detect no other sounds of life. He was shaking, though, badly enough to nearly drop his weapon. He felt like he was in the middle of a storm, or that Anders had lost control of his electricity again. Surely, his hair was standing on end.

They reached the lecture platform at long last. The Warden's boot tapped onto the hollow wood, followed by Dog's nails and Anders' heel. Finally, Fenris padded silently onto the polished surface. Then he stopped. Because he couldn't move.

The mage hurried to Hawke's side, did a quick check of the man's form, and breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Hawke," he murmured urgently. "Wake up."

The Warden padded around the perimeter of the platform, his golden eyes searching the shadows around the hall.

Fenris couldn't move.

"Fenris?" the Warden was the first to notice something was amiss. He approached, his expression concerned. "Are you going to let Anders take all the credit? That's your man over there."

Fenris could watch, but he could not respond. He stared at the Warden, desperate for the man to see.

"Anders," the Warden called over his shoulder. "I think there's magic going on."

"I..." Anders lowered his head over Hawke's form. "I know."

Fenris' heart plummeted.

"The abomination won't help you," said a familiar voice, echoing from the upper levels. "We made a deal."

Fenris wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He was forced to see Anders turn, the expression of profound guilt and fear on the man's face.

"I'm sorry," the mage whispered.

"Don't be sorry," Danarius said. "You've done a great service for the Imperium. And you will be justly rewarded." The magister strode slowly down the stairs opposite from the set they had descended, easily within Fenris' line of sight. He was flanked by apprentices and numerous warriors. He smiled his cruel, vulture's smile. "You may take your Champion and go."

Anders was still staring at Fenris, his gaze pleading. "It was the only way," he said miserably. "I'm so sorry..."

"What are you talking about?" the Warden demanded. "Anders?"

"Hawke is bound with the same spell as your friend," Danarius explained. "You may remove it at any time. Though I recommend you go some distance before telling him what you've done. To prevent... complications." The magister had reached the platform. He dismissed the Warden and Dog with a derisory glance and approached Fenris' immobile form. "Welcome home, Fenris," he purred. He reached up and touched the amulet Anders had given him. "Have you anything to say?"

The hold on Fenris' body relaxed enough for him to speak. His glare found Anders. "I would have done this myself if I thought it would work," he snarled urgently. "Anders, you fool, you don't know what you've just done!" His last exclamation came out strangled as the amulet took him again.

"That's enough, pet." The magister turned. His white head was close, so close, to Nameless' half-moon blade, but Fenris couldn't move, not even to drop the axe and hope it hit something vital. "You may go, abomination. Leave this place before I change my mind and take you all. I am rather curious about how a spirit of the Fade bound itself to you. Whether that spirit could be removed, either with or without harm to the human host." He examined his tidy fingernails thoughtfully.

"Anders," the Warden growled, joined by Dog's low tones. "You can't just leave him here!"

"It is done," Anders said hollowly. "Maker help me, it is done." He turned away as he spoke and gathered Hawke's body into his arms. The Champion must have become emaciated, because the mage seemed to have little difficulty lifting the man.

"We can still fight!"

"Not like this." Anders' voice was thick. He didn't look back at Fenris as he walked away. "I have to get Hawke out."

"We would have done it together!" the Warden howled. The red-haired elf gazed at Fenris desperately. His long sword and dagger trembled in his hands.

Fenris was reminded of that moment, months ago now, when Hawke had looked up at him and said, "Go."

_Go_, the dark elf thought, trying to make his eyes speak. _Go, go, go, go, go._

The Warden's head swiveled, taking in the magister, his apprentices, the soldiers, and the rippling of the shadows all around the room, heavy with the presence of Danarius' legion of bonded spirits.

Finally, the Hero of Ferelden's face weakened with despair. He edged away, took one more look back at Fenris, then turned and ran, following Anders' retreating figure.

When they were gone, Danarius stood beside his frozen slave and smiled. "Don't worry, pet. You will see your friends again soon. Very soon."


	15. Chapter 15

**Warnings**:

Black, black, black! The author's veins are full of dark roast coffee! Lots of dramas. Some quasi-consensual, not-too-graphic smexxings. The author's poor sense of humour.

**Author's Note**:

So, it's been a while, mostly because I'm somewhat bipolar when writing, going from "THIS IS AWESOME :D" to "WHAT HAVE I DONE D:" in the span of a few minutes. Anyway, so I wrote this a while ago and then gave it up in disgust, and then came crawling back on hands and knees to beg its forgiveness. So here I am, with another few chapters to offer on the altar of .

You're probably going to hate me. Augh, I deliberated so long on how this was going to go, with long walks listening to Dust in the Wind, but I feel like it's out of my hands. I'm sorry _

I don't want to give any spoilers, but I'm NOT going to pull a Game of Thrones on you and kill off the main character and there WILL be a happy ending! We just have to walk through the dark forests and the piles of corpses, first. So, um, hang in there?

Also, I feel like I'm giving Anders SUCH a hard time, and I don't want to give the impression that I dislike him. To be honest, I adore him! I feel like he's a complex and very organic character, the kind of guy who has all the best intentions but makes mistakes every which way, and despite all that he just. keeps. trying. AND manages to hold onto a good sense of humour and love for his fellow man/woman (all of them. again and again and again.) So, I guess I just wanted to put that out there. Especially now, when I'm about to do cruel, cruel things to him. It's the cruelty of love.

In this chapter we learn that Anders feels about Hawke the way I feel about Chuck Norris...  
"If Hawke falls in a lake, he doesn't get wet; the lake gets Hawked."  
"Underneath Hawke's beard is another fist."  
"When the Maker needs to curse someone, He calls on Hawke's name."  
"Demons tell stories about Hawke to get their spawn to behave."

Okay, okay, I'll stop...

**Disclaimer**: In Dragon Age fanfic, Hawke writes the author.

**Playlist Recs:**

Gotye – Hearts a Mess, Loath to Refuse  
Daft Punk – Fall  
Zonata – Visions of Sorrow (except when he's singing)

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Were it not for the weight of Hawke in his arms, the man's gaunt face rocking in slow time against Anders' feathered shoulder, the mage wouldn't have been able to walk anywhere. He had to focus on the feel of Hawke's body, concentrate only on the need to examine him somewhere safe, and block out everything else. Otherwise, black guilt would have driven him to his knees.

_It was the only way. The right way._

At the beginning of this journey, Anders had been convinced that Fenris, the cruel beast, was at fault for Hawke's capture. That he had deserved to go back to his master, to face what he was and what he had done. How better to get Hawke back than by luring the elf to the Tevinter magister and handing him over? What was more just than that?

Now he didn't know. Was this justice? Could they have fought the magister? And won?

No... Even with the Warden, they couldn't have defeated the Tevinter. Anders had felt the oily demonic legion that swarmed in the shadows at Danarius' call. The mages with him, too, held great power. Danarius would have dispatched them with no great trouble and taken Fenris anyway.

Anders recalled the expression on the elf's face, his ragged voice, when Danarius briefly released him from the amulet's hold. He hadn't cursed Anders, though the mage surely deserved his rage and hatred, he had called a warning-

The mage nearly tripped over the stone edge of a fountain as his eyes glazed over. His arms ached and trembled, but he shifted Hawke higher and clung to the man. He had to focus. He had to concentrate on his destination. Thinking about Fenris...

"I'll help you," the Warden said, low voiced. He hadn't spoken a word, nor even looked at Anders, since they left the University grounds. Now, his golden eyes turned to the mage, his expression as cold as the night around them.

"No," Anders immediately replied, clutching Hawke tightly. If he let go, he felt he would fall. "Just... do you remember where to go?"

After a moment, the Warden nodded, turned and walked away. Anders hurried to follow.

Vol Dorma was in that place between night and morning, where all was silent and hushed, as though the entire city was holding its breath. They saw no one else as the Warden led them through tall, stone streets, all walled in strange, twisted Tevinter architecture. Only the faintest orange light found them, falling from guttering torches set high in the walls and glowing from the hollow eyes of haunted statues. They crossed markets and bridges, all without seeing another soul. It was like travelling through the land of the dead.

_I'll carry you out of here, _Anders silently assured his burden. _You will not be one of them._

Finally, they reached the inn where, only hours before, Anders had lied to Fenris. Lied and lied and lied. The mage looked up at the wide building front, the window that the elf had peered through, and his stomach burned.

The Warden guided his companions up to the room Anders and Fenris had shared. Silently, he lit several lamps and then sat back to watch.

Anders tried to ignore him. The skin of Anders' neck crawled with the feel of the man's gaze on him, that silent recrimination, but Anders knew he had no right to send him away. The mage gently lay his burden on one of the room's beds, then busied himself at the brazier preparing a carafe of hot, spiced wine, wanting it ready for when Hawke woke. His hands shook and he nearly burned himself more than once. He felt nervous, afraid, excited, guilty and overwhelmingly exhausted. Once he was done, he wiped his damp palms on his thighs and then approached his patient, his ultimate goal.

Beneath the long white linen sheet, wrapped around him like a dead man, Hawke was naked but for an amulet and a pair of tattered pantaloons. At one time, in a dimly remembered past, this would have thrilled the mage. But now the Champion just looked thin and sick. Anders examined him, running his healer's hands over the long, weakened limbs, palpitating the hollow abdomen, burying his fingers into the thatch of unkempt black hair. Though the half-starved state of the man was in itself maddening, Anders found nothing but the man's own ill-gotten scars and a lot of grime.

"Not a mark on him," he muttered aloud.

"Possession?"

Anders, bent over his patient, brushed some hair out of his eyes and flashed glare up at his watcher. He would not believe that he had come this far, only to discover that Hawke, _his Hawke_, had been weak enough to succumb to something so banal as a demon. If he liked the taste, Hawke could eat demons for breakfast.

The Warden lifted an eyebrow.

Anders swallowed his anger. He was being a fool. "I won't know until he's awake," he replied sullenly.

"Then wake him. If he's possessed, I want to trade him back."

It was very, very difficult not to attack the Warden. Didn't the man know what this was doing to Anders? The Warden had developed a close friendship with Fenris, but Anders... Anders had torn out his own heart, his soul. He felt empty.

He had to focus.

So, wary and watchful, Anders carefully reached under Hawke's neck and unfastened the amulet.

It was only as he pulled the chain away from Hawke's pallid skin that he thought to glance up and say intently to the Warden, "Don't tell him. Not until I get the chance."

"Don't tell him what?" Hawke whispered hoarsely.

Anders started at the voice, both familiar and unfamiliar, taken aback by the speed of the man's recovery. "Y-you're awake," he stuttered, his entire body shaking with a mix of fear and ecstasy. His blood sang, _Hawke! Hawke! Everything will be well again! _He didn't know if he should touch or not, his hands trembled where they hovered over Hawke's shoulder.

"Don't tell him I'm awake?" Hawke didn't open his eyes, but a slight furrow appeared between his brows as he thought. "If you're referring to me, Anders, I think I would know." He started coughing, then, and tried to sit up, braced on an elbow.

"Here." Anders hurriedly launched himself into motion. He supported the Champion's bony back with one arm and reached out for a cup of the waiting wine. "Drink this."

Hawke's eyes finally slit open, blood-shot and bruised. He took the cup and looked at its dark surface suspiciously. "There are herbs in this, aren't there."

Anders almost smiled. "A few. But mostly a lot of alcohol."

"Maker, I knew you were a good friend."

_Stab, stab, stabbity, stab._ Anders' heart seemed to have acquired a knife from somewhere and was vigorously impaling itself as the mage stared at Hawke's bent head in despair and trepidation. Part of him was simultaneously thrilling to the sensation of Hawke's weight nestled against his chest, in the protective half-circle of his arm. The Champion didn't seem to notice Anders' vast confusion, though, as with both weak hands he tried to drink. Over the man's head, the Warden glared. When he caught Anders' eye, the elf mouthed, "Possession?"

He didn't want to check. He didn't think he could bear the thought that he had traded away Fenris for an abomination. Hawke would have insisted, though; the man hated demons.

Anders summoned himself and all his resolve. When Hawke had finished drinking, the mage took the cup and set it aside. He reluctantly helped the Champion lean back against a stack of cushions. Then, with Hawke's attention on him, Anders said, "We know you're possessed."

"We?"

Instead of answering, Anders brought up a hand and attacked.

A flash of blue energy struck Hawke in the chest and dissipated. Hawke stared at the mage with weary curiosity. He took Anders' hand in his own. "Anders," he said slowly, rough-voiced. "I saw you do that to Keran. It's not a good test."

Anders blinked. "I..."

"I'm not possessed, though, if that's what you're worried about. Danarius talked about it, but he didn't want to give me any more advantages." He smiled that familiar, smug Hawke-smile, though it was only a slim shadow of its former self. "I think I killed three of his apprentices and a score of his soldiers as it was, before he found a way to bind me."

Anders relaxed minutely at the assurance.

"That's not good enough," the Warden interjected. "You can't be sure."

"I would know," Anders snapped back. He would sense it-surely, Justice would sense it-even without a test. And he was sure that Hawke was free from the demon taint. "I am the only abomination here."

"Be easy, my friend," Hawke soothed, rubbing the edge of his thumb over Anders' knuckles. The unexpected caress sent a riot of shivers up the mage's arm to ache in his shoulder. "Where Danarius is involved, suspicion is justified." He turned his head to regard the Warden. "A Fereldan," he said, his gaze dropping to Dog. "Well met."

"Champion," the Warden responded icily. Anders fought not to snarl at the man.

"I don't know how to prove that I'm no demon," Hawke said calmly. "Other than to give you my word as one of your countrymen."

"There have been many Fereldan abominations," the Warden replied. "Your word means nothing to me. Know this: I will be watching you. Should you be hiding the demon taint, I will find out and I will kill you."

"And I would thank you for it." Kirkwall's Champion bowed his head. When he raised his eyes once more, he bore a half-smile. "Though I would know whom to thank."

"No one important."

"The Warden," Anders corrected. "_The_ the Warden, to be specific."

"Ah." Hawke's brows jumped. "The Hero of Ferelden at my bedside. That must be some tale." He glanced about the room, his expression softening in confusion. "And where are we? Halfway through the desert, Danarius put something on me. The rest is mostly just a blur, with a lot of laughing. I do remember the laughing." His narrow shoulders shuddered.

"We're in Vol Dorma," Anders supplied.

"I see." Anders could almost see the man summon a map to mind. He cleared his throat and drank more of Anders' wine. "Not the best way to travel to the Imperium," he continued after a moment, "but at least I'm here. How did I, uh, get here?"

"Anders rescued you from Danarius," the Warden said in a hard voice.

Hawke's smile returned. He squeezed Anders' fingers, still placid in one broad palm. "Then you have my gratitude. Is he dead?"

"N-no, he's alive. We had to sneak you out." Anders coughed. Any moment, he expected the man to demand where Fenris was, why he wasn't at his lover's side. He reflexively held onto Hawke in preparation for being angrily spurned.

"And so we flee, recuperate and then make plans to come back and kill Danarius." Hawke leaned back, eyes drooping, looking sleepy and satisfied. "I knew, in all that darkness, that you would come for me."

"You did?" This wasn't the response Anders had expected. Heat rose in his chest.

"Of course. You've always been there for me. Even when I did not... appreciate you like I should have." Hawke's voice was already fading. He was visibly slipping back into unconsciousness.

_Does he know what he's saying? Is he delirious?_ Anders felt like he was dreaming. Hope and guilt battered at each other in his chest like two pigeons trapped in a cage. The words that dripped from Hawke's chapped lips were exactly what Anders had always wanted to hear.

The Warden interrupted Anders' desperate staring by standing and stalking from the room, Dog at his heel. The elf radiated disgust. As the door clicked shut, Anders winced and shame flowed back like a tide.

"I hope... he hasn't been like that the entire time." Tired humour warmed Hawke's voice. "Then you deserve more of a reward."

Anders shrank. "No, he's... he's usually more friendly. I couldn't have done this without his help. In a way, he reminds me of you."

"Don't get any ideas, mage. You're _my_ companion." Anders couldn't determine if Hawke was being serious or not, not when Hawke's eyes remained closed and his face relaxed, but part of him melted at the possessiveness in the Champion's tone. "I suppose the Maker smiles even on people like me." He chuckled weakly. "I feel like I've been dreaming for weeks, but I'm so exhausted."

"Magical sleep isn't restful," Anders said. "You need real sleep, several meals and a bath."

"Maker, yes," Hawke sighed.

Anders moved to pull away, to leave the man in peace, but Hawke's grip suddenly tightened.

"Don't leave me alone." A glimmer of iris appeared. "Stay with me. Or I might forget that this is real." He shifted sideways, making room next to his wasted form.

Anders stared at the sheets with a feeling like horror. Lying next to Hawke had been a wistful fantasy that grew into an obsession, an impossible dream. Now it was coming true, but at what price? And what would Hawke do when he discovered the truth?

_Flames take me_. He would take what he could get while he could. Like at the Circle, when a young mage couldn't afford to turn down an opportunity when it was offered. There was no guarantee that, midway through the night, Hawke wouldn't turn into a demon and gnaw Anders' face off, but he would risk it. He would force those worries away and focus on the present. _Fenris wouldn't want him to be alone_, Anders soothed his conscience.

"I'll stay," the mage said. "Hawke, I will always be at your side."

Numbly, moving as though in a dream, Anders snuffed out the lamps and settled gingerly next to the Champion, sitting up against the headboard. Hawke sighed and rolled to sling his arm over the mage's hips, resting his ragged head on Ander's thigh. Almost instantly, his breath deepened and his body went limp and heavy.

The mage gently stroked Hawke's hair and stared into the darkness, now grey with early morning's light.

/.\./.\

Somehow, the sun rose, fat and golden and bursting with inconsiderate life, and the world went on.

Hawke woke close to noon, in time for Anders to make a desperate run for the privy. On his way back, the mage ordered a bath and food brought to their room. Anders' appetite was non-existent, his stomach roiling in nauseating grief, but he was desperate to feed the Champion and see him set to rights.

"Are you sure you don't want one?" Hawke asked around a sweet roll. "Tevinters know how to treat themselves."

"I'm sure." Anders perched in the chair the Warden had occupied the night before and carefully watched his patient. Any moment, he was sure that he would spot some critical problem, some injury of either body or mind, but Hawke's humour was good and his appetite was immense. The man had slept easily, barely moving at all, and woke with a soft, affectionate expression around his eyes.

_Maker, help me_, Anders prayed, for perhaps the hundredth time that day. _I am so lost._ Everything was perfection. Everything but the lean shadow missing from the doorway, from the window sill, from his side. _Is this a dream or a nightmare?_ The mage shivered on the inside. He felt like a man awaiting his execution. The sunlight was pale and sickly; the air was stale; there was no warmth and no joy. Only Hawke seemed unaffected and Anders looked to him in poorly veiled desperation, seeking some vindication for his actions.

"Are you unwell?" the Champion asked, concern briefly abating his quick consumption. "Anders, were you injured? Did you get hurt?"

"No. No, I'm all right." Physically, anyway. Other than that he felt himself succumbing to madness.

"You don't look all right."

Anders flinched away from Hawke's steady, piercing stare. He dropped his head and stared at the hands writhing between his knees. These were hands that could summon the forces of life and the forces of destruction, but they could not summon an answer for him.

The tableau reminded him of when he had destroyed the Chantry. When he had sat in that rocking, violent boat with Hawke's gaze heavy upon him, as heavy as the hand of the Maker. It was only Hawke's judgement that Anders had cared about; whatever Hawke decided to do with him, the mage would obey. The others, the hatred and chaos and fear, they were of no concern to him. Then, despite everything, despite the betrayal, Hawke had given Anders the opportunity to redeem himself.

The mage doubted that the man would be so forgiving now.

A knock brought his head up. Relieved, Anders admitted the inn's servants with the tub and hot water.

"Oh, thank the Maker," Hawke murmured. "I'm tired of breathing through my mouth." While the servants worked, the Champion devoured the rest of his breakfast. Then, mostly steady, he stood and disrobed.

Anders hurriedly turned his back on the man. "I need to talk to the Warden," he yelped and ran for the exit.

"Can't it wait?" Hawke complained.

The mage didn't answer. He escaped into the hall, his face hot and the rest of him shaking. What was Hawke _doing_? What was he thinking? He leaned back against the door and drew in a long breath. Sure, Hawke had always been flirtatious, but had it always been so blatant? Even before the Champion had started his relationship with one very powerful and broody elf?

For the life of him, Anders couldn't remember. All he knew was that now, as exciting as Hawke's easy affection was, it felt wrong. It felt like betrayal, when Fenris' spectre stood between them.

_If only he stood with us in truth._ It wasn't so long ago that Anders had first entertained idle fantasies of being with the two men. It felt like years had passed since then, though. Passed by during the night. _Maker, help me, I want him back. I made a mistake. That wasn't the right way!_

Anders' knees started to buckle, so he forced himself away from the door and forced himself to walk down the hall. He nearly knocked a table over in his distraction, but otherwise managed to get down the stairs and into the common room unscathed.

The room was moderately populated with Tevinter common folk enjoying their midday meals. Anders had only to follow their suspicious stares to find the Warden. The elf was tucked in the darkest corner of the common room, brooding over a drink like a pale version of Fenris. Anders did his best to shake off his malaise and approached.

"Is it safe for you to be on your own?" the mage asked, concerned.

The Warden's daggers rose and fell with a shrug. He replied to his drink, "Better to be alone than with the current company."

Anders winced. "I just know that you make a... a target."

"And I need a human to protect me," the Warden filled in venomously, his glare finally lifting. "Or would you rather protect the slavers I would slaughter for trying to take me? Would you become one of these Tevinter scum?" He didn't seem to care that nearby tables were looking over.

It was difficult for Anders to rein in his own temper. Heat rose in his face. "That is unkind," he said, low-voiced and intense. He sat across from the Warden, hoping the elf would stop making a flaming spectacle of himself. "Fenris said that he would have done this very thing. He would die to protect Hawke."

"He also knows his former master." The elf's gaze fell to his cup and his anger seemed to fade. "This will not end well, Anders."

"You don't need to tell me that." Anders sighed and folded his arms. "Warden, I... A part of me died when I turned my back on him." He bowed his head, his face spasming as it tried to express some of the agony he had been keeping inside. "This was, it was a mistake. Something I started so long ago, before I learned, before I realized, who Fenris is. I would give anything to go back and change it, but I can't." He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stem the tide of words.

"Why not?"

"What?" This brought Anders' heavy head up.

The Warden considered him, anger turned to speculation. "You made a mistake."

"Everything I do turns to shit," Anders responded flatly.

"I am starting to get that impression, yes. But you have the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall on your side." A whine came from under the table. "And Dog."

Anders shook his head, bewildered now. "You saw Danarius, you saw the power he commands."

"I saw a man. And men can die." There was the expression that the Archdemon must have seen when the Warden struck the final blow. It was the hard, bleak look of a man who always has done, and will do, what is necessary.

Despite himself, Anders felt the feeble wave of hope. "You would do this, Warden? Help us recover Fenris?" _If he's still alive_, filled in his more world-wise pessimism. He remembered Fenris' descriptions of Danarius, his own prognosis should he be captured. _He could be a skinless corpse by now. _Dark skin that had so recently been bare to his eye, rippling under his own touch, the muscles both hard and liquid, magic just on the edge of tasting.

He had to force the memories away with physical effort.

_I will go mad like this..._

"Fenris is a friend," the Warden replied. "And I do not give my friends up without a fight."

Anders flinched violently and tried to recover. "I'll tell Hawke... what I did. I think he's too weak to fight now, but in a fortnight, perhaps two...? If he doesn't murder me outright."

The Warden nodded. "So long as the magister hasn't left the city, you may have a chance to redeem yourself."

Again, Anders was reminded of that rocking boat and Hawke's offer to allow him to continue fighting. "I hope that I do." He drew a breath and pushed his hair back, steeling himself for what was to come. "Hawke needs clothing and equipment. Before we do anything else, I think we should arm him."

"In case he runs off to rescue his beloved," the Warden answered. "Agreed. He can wear something of mine until we purchase new. And when we're on the street, we may find information."

"Right." The mage tried to smile, but it probably just came out looking sick. "I'm glad you're making the plans, Warden. Mine tend to... not turn out so well as I hope."

"I noticed." The elf's expression had gone cool again and Anders knew that he would not receive forgiveness so easily.

When the Warden had finished his drink, they returned to the second floor. The Warden fetched some civilian garments from somewhere in his belongings and Anders brought them to his own room. There he paused just outside the door, his hand lifted to knock.

_What do I say? What if he's naked?_

The door swung inward before Anders could come up with any answers. There was Hawke, with colour in his face and a light in his eyes, a sheet slung casually around his bony hips. Instead of the odour of a month's confinement, he smelled like soap and spicy Tevinter oils. His hair was damp, spiking up in places. The pale, early afternoon light gleamed from the window behind him, limning his figure with silver.

Blood roared in Anders' ears, which was remarkable considering that most of it had mysteriously fled from his head to other body parts.

"I thought I heard you out here," the rogue said. He smirked. "No need to be shy."

"Um." Anders licked dry lips and wordlessly held out the clothing. "These are the Warden's. He's, uh, a scrapper, a fighter, like you. They should do while we get some of your own."

"I see."

"They might be short, but you probably wouldn't want to wear robes." _And I don't want to show you how many places I embroidered your crest._ It had seemed like a good idea at the time... An outward demonstration of what was already embroidered on his heart.

"Well enough. Are you coming in?" Hawke backed away to allow Anders entry.

"N-no, I don't think so. We'll be waiting downstairs for you."

The mage fled before Hawke could make any more innocent offers for Anders to misconstrue.

/.\./.\

Shopping, eating, talking, walking and sitting with Hawke and the Warden was a surreal experience for Anders. Only a day before, Fenris had been a shadow at his side. Now, Anders followed Hawke's charismatic figure as the man explored Vol Dorma, in areas that they had last passed through in the dead of night. The mage kept turning to say something to Fenris, perhaps to ask a question or just re-affirm that he was there. Of course, he was not. Only the Warden paced alongside, grim and silent. Even Dog knew that something was amiss; he whined more than usual.

"It's not so different from Kirkwall, really," Hawke noted as they stopped to sit in the shade of some decorative, flowering trees. "Architecturally, anyway." He pointed out the stone work and statuary. "A lot more slaves, though, and everything is in better condition. Those are probably related."

"I'm sure it's easier to get city workers when you don't need to pay them. Or feed them." The Warden's tone was bitter. Now that he was the only elf in their party, he seemed more sensitive to the plight of the elven slaves.

"Assuredly. Can you really trust their work, though?" was Hawke's thoughtful response.

Anders cast a disturbed look at the rogue and hoped that the man was joking.

They only got far enough for Hawke to find armour of his own, dark and wickedly spiked in the Tevinter fashion, dangerously attractive. The fabric, leather and metal sagged off of his shoulders and hips, but he merely grinned at himself in the shopkeeper's polished metal and said, "Room to grow. My mother would be proud." He didn't seem to notice Anders' blatant and desirous stares, though whether this was a good thing or not, Anders could not decide.

Early in the afternoon, Hawke begged exhaustion and hunger. They returned to the inn and claimed a small table in the mostly empty common room.

"If you keep eating like that, we won't have money for supplies," the Warden observed, watching Hawke consume a path through a large pig's leg. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you just became a Grey Warden."

Hawke just smirked. "Have you seen the pictures of the Champion that are floating around? Those broad shoulders and mighty thews? I have a lot to get back." He pointed his fork at the Warden's own slim stature. "You aren't quite living up to the legends, either, Warden. I thought the height requirement for slaying Archdemons was ten feet."

"I've always been a rule breaker."

This was the point where Fenris would groan and scoff at the Fereldans. Anders felt a sharp pang when the dry comment didn't come. _Maker, I miss him_, he thought, not for the first time that day. It felt so wrong not to bicker with him, provoke him, tease him, be challenged by him, and, finally, embrace him.

Hawke and the Warden continued to banter relentlessly over their meal, as though dueling with words instead of knives. Anders interjected once or twice, but he was still reeling from what he had done and his attempts often fell flat and hard. So he picked at his own plate and watched, looking back and forth between his companions, and wondered if this meant they were getting along or not. Hawke seemed to enjoy the Warden's company, at least, though the Warden seemed to bear some residual suspicion and resentment toward the Champion.

Eventually, Hawke couldn't hide his weariness any longer. "The sun's still up," he observed, yawning. He peered at Anders. "Don't tell Varric that I ever went to bed this early, would you? He'll turn the legend of the Champion into a lesson for young children."

Anders shook his head. "I hesitate to even imagine what you could teach young children."

"One day, you'll have to face the darkness alone," was Hawke's prompt reply. His smirk turned bitter. "I guess that wouldn't be so great for children, would it?" He stood and nodded at the Warden. "I bid you a good night, serah. I'll sharpen my wit tonight."

"You need it," the Warden replied.

Hawke stepped away a few paces, his new, too-large armour jingling and creaking, then turned to Anders. "Are you coming?"

The mage jolted. He looked over Hawke's quietly assertive expression and couldn't see anything to indicate if the request was innocent or otherwise. He glanced at the Warden, expecting withering disapproval, but the Warden's face was turned away as he spoke quietly to Dog.

"Are you not feeling well?" Anders finally asked, getting to his feet and straightening his coat. He hoped Hawke would take the opportunity to give Anders a legitimate reason to accompany him.

"It's not that. I just want your company."

_Thank the Maker we're being discrete,_ Anders sighed internally. He didn't even know what to think. He followed Hawke to their room, the room that Anders had first shared with Fenris. Was this wrong? Was he thinking about this too much? It was possible that Hawke just didn't want to be alone, or maybe he wanted his friends around him. Anders, full of a storm of shame and wanting, could just be imagining things.

"An interesting man," Hawke confided when they were behind closed doors. "Not what I expected the Hero of Ferelden to be like." His back to Anders, he unbuckled his Tevinter armour.

The mage, rubbing suddenly sweaty palms on his thighs, hurried to sit on the room's chair. He tried not to look as Hawke's pale, scarred shoulders were revealed in the warm golden light of early evening, pooling in through the window. Now the scent was of spice, leather and the man himself. His movements seemed easy, confident. Anders stared fixedly at his hands, but couldn't keep himself from taking quick glances as more and more skin was revealed. Even weakened as he was, pure, powerful charisma rolled off of the Champion and drew in his unwilling audience. The room was suddenly hot, stifling. Anders wanted to cast something icy and uncomfortable on himself.

"I hope you don't mind." Hawke turned and dropped his last arm brace to the floor. He stared at his bare hand and arm, clenching and releasing a fist, and made a sound of disgust. Then he shook his head and flashed a disarming smile at the mage. "I know it's early, but I don't like the thought of being alone. When I'm sleeping."

_You're naked, Hawke. By Andraste's pink frillies, you're naked._

"It... It's all right. I don't mind." The willpower that harnessed lightning and sand storms to do his bidding could barely keep his eyes from dropping, roving, exploring the dark places that he had wanted to go since he first met the man.

_Do you know that you're naked? Please stop being naked._

"Then come here."

Anders slowly, painfully obeyed. He turned to remove his coat and hang it up, but left everything else in place. Was this a test? Was he dead? Was he in the Fade? Why was it now, _now_, when everything he wanted should lay itself out before him, free for his taking, free to take him? Why now, when he was haunted by the spirit of another lover? The spirit of his own betrayal? His guilt? His failings?

"Come here, Anders." That was the voice Anders had unquestioningly obeyed in countless battles. It was a voice he trusted to keep him out of danger, to help him be a more effective fighter and healer, to let him work with people he never had, nor ever would, see eye-to-eye.

He could not refuse it now.

Once again, as dusk sent her purple brush to paint the white-washed walls of the room, Anders sat next to the Champion. Fortunately for Anders' dwindling sanity, Hawke forced nothing further, beyond sprawling once more across Anders' lap. Numbly, automatically, Anders pulled the blankets around his companion and allowed a hand to fall on the hot, bare skin of Hawke's bony spine. Hawke quickly went limp and heavy, his breath deep and rhythmic. His arm was close, so close, to the seat of Anders' rampant desires, that every time the man shifted it sent a little thrill through the mage's exhausted body.

Anders rested his head back against the wall and stared at the shadows gathering on the ceiling. _This is wrong, so wrong. Maker, help me._

Sleep would not come to him. He dreamed, though, in the flickering of distant torch light, of stalking darkness, of painful truth and repudiation, of love turned into something sick and twisted.

/.\./.\

They told Hawke the truth in the morning, over their breakfast. Rather, Anders told Hawke the truth while the Warden pinned him with an amber glare as sharp and relentless as his daggers.

"Hawke," Anders mumbled to the piece of bread he was trying to make edible with a coating of butter. So far, everything had tasted like paper and stuck in his throat. "Hawke, you haven't asked about Fenris..."

He felt that lack with sudden sharpness, as though he had turned a corner in a familiar city and found a gaping hole in the ground instead of a Chantry.

_But then, that was my fault, too, wasn't it?_

The mage rapidly blinked away the recollection and tried to focus on Hawke, no, the bread.

"I haven't," Hawke agreed mildly.

"He came with us to save you," Anders blurted in a rush. "And Danarius captured him." He glanced up, quickly enough to see Hawke's sad expression, then stared back down again. He was so exhausted, even lifting his eyes took effort. He hadn't slept in days. Hadn't slept well in weeks.

"That's not quite true," the Warden said stonily.

Anders shuddered. "It's not. Flames take me, I gave him up. I traded him for you, Hawke." He threw the bread and his knife down. Then, liking the clatter so much, he lunged to his feet and swept his entire setting to smash on the floor, releasing a sob. "I betrayed him!"

The room went very quiet.

Anders turned, glaring at the people who were staring at him, some with wide eyes and some with bored interest. Dog started noisily licking up the mage's breakfast.

His stomach twisted. He collapsed back onto his chair, doubled over and hiding his face. He couldn't bear to meet Hawke's gaze, already picturing the horror and disgust. He couldn't bear the weight of the accusations, the guilt, the shame, the grief.

"I know."

The quiet words startled Anders out of his black spiral. He jerked upright and stared, aghast, at the Champion.

"You knew?" the Warden demanded.

Hawke nodded grimly, his face set in long lines. "Danarius told me. He told me that you contacted him and that you were going to give him Fenris. He wanted me to give in to him, I think. Or maybe he just wanted to make me angry." He shrugged. "Who knows how his mind works?"

"Then how-? Why-?" Anders groped for words as his hands groped for purchase on the scarred wood of their table. "You never said anything-!" _Why don't you hate me? Why haven't you run off to save him? _

"You did what you thought was right," Hawke said calmly, apparently not noticing that the mage was drowning in confusion. "Anders, I know you always do. It just doesn't turn out well without someone around to tell you when you're being an idiot."

"We can still save him," the Warden declared, leaning forward intently. "When you're well enough to fight, we'll take Fenris back from the Tevinter snake!"

Now Hawke shook his head. "No. Danarius told me what he was going to do. Fenris is already dead."


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:  
**

In which Anders dreams.

And Hawke rises.

**Warnings:** Quasi-non-consensual smexx.

**Disclaimer:** These characters don't belong to me. And that's probably a damned good thing.

**Playlist Recommendations:**

Interpol – Almost everything by them  
Radiohead – All I Need, Creep, Paranoid Android  
Dandelion Wine – A World Completely of Our Own  
NIN – The Perfect Drug

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter 16**

Hawke could have kicked him in the stomach and it wouldn't have hurt so much. Anders gasped and doubled over. "No," he moaned into his palms. "No, no, no, no..." Of all the blood on his hands and the death hanging over his head, this was the worst.

Images, sounds, sensations of Fenris flickered behind his eyes. There was the snarl, the violence, the anger, the murder, the hatred, the blurring around the edges of reality as the elf ghosted into the Fade. Then there was that quiet, low-voiced reason, the surprising intelligence, clever wit, that deep well of concern and loyalty for those he cared about. For Hawke. For Anders.

Anders was vaguely aware of Hawke leaning over him, taking his arm. "Come on," the Champion said. "Anders, come with me."

"They were lovers, you know," the Warden spat, his words like needles. "Anders wooed him and then sent him to his death."

_It's true_, Anders wanted to wail, but his throat had closed. He could barely draw breath after shuddering breath. Even that seemed to be a lost cause.

"Stand up," Hawke insisted, shaking Anders' shoulder. "Whatever happened, we deal with it together. I won't lose you both."

Disbelieving, Anders finally looked at the man hovering over him. Hawke, though grim, didn't seem at all angry or stricken by grief. Then, if what he said was accurate, he had known since the beginning that Fenris was going to die and Anders would be the cause.

"You knew this would happen," Anders croaked.

"I did." Hawke's attention found the Warden. His beard jutted forward as he firmed his chin. "Hero of Ferelden or not, I'll have you hold your tongue, Warden," he said, his tone hard. "I know Fenris; he wasn't some fainting maid to be easily seduced. And I know Anders; whatever he did, he did because he felt it was justified, and the guilt is going to kill him."

"Good," the Warden responded venomously. Under his faint blue tattoos, his face was a livid red. "And what of you, _Champion_? What of revenge and justice?"

"What of them?" Hawke finally hauled Anders up onto his feet with surprising strength. He tugged the mage away from the table, but paused long enough to rebuke the elf. "Should we plunge into the heart of the Imperium, weak and under-armed, and give up what Fenris died to save? Or should we retreat and live the life that Fenris gave us? Revenge will wait until I have allies and the strength to use them."

The Warden didn't answer.

Hawke's words bounded and rebounded inside Anders' skull as he stumbled up the stairs with the aid of the rogue, staring at the toes of his boots. Was that truly Hawke's opinion? Once the grief had passed and they had avenged Fenris' death, would they have a life together? Could they, with Fenris' shadow between them? Would Hawke forgive him? Could Anders forgive himself?

Anders returned to himself in their room. He looked around, finding the place suddenly unfamiliar in the morning light. He was dizzy.

"It's all right," Hawke murmured as he closed the door. "Everything will be all right. You'll see." He approached from behind and there was the clatter of his black gauntlets falling to the floor. His arms went around the mage's chest. His large, thin hands lay spider-like against Anders' stomach. Being slightly taller than the mage, his nose pressed against the shell of Anders' ear and his breath shivered past the flushed cheek.

"How can you say that?" Anders choked out, turning his face away from the uncomfortable caress. When he had initially come up with his terrible plan, their roles had been reversed. He should have been comforting the grieving Hawke, not the other way around. This was all wrong.

"Because it's true." Hawke's grip tightened. His lips, accompanied by the scruff of beard, ghosted the side of Anders' neck. The armour on his chest and hips jutted against Anders' back, hard and insistent through the layers of Anders' robes.

"Stop," Anders finally pleaded. He grasped Hawke's bony wrists, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away, couldn't keep the heat from pooling in his stomach and groin. "This is wrong!"

"I want you to know that I don't blame you," the rogue rumbled into the fringe of hair at the back of Anders' neck, sending entirely non-magical sparks down Anders' spine. Hawke's fingers slid under the edges of the mage's coat, burrowing, searching. "Fenris wouldn't, either. If Danarius had wanted you, he would have done the same."

"No! He wouldn't." The protest was breathless. It was a struggle just to breathe, much less force words past his dry mouth. Fenris wouldn't stoop so low. He would kill a man, but he wouldn't betray him! He wouldn't give up the people he loved. He would never deal with demons, nor humans worse than demons. "Hawke, please, don't..." His entreaty came in response to the busy inching of his coat off of his shoulders, pulled by industrious hands.

"Don't you want me?" Hawke asked. "Don't you want this?"

"Yes! But not... not like this!" He was stuttering, tripping over himself.

A quick wrench removed the garment, sending feathers fluttering to the floor. Anders finally spun and tried to back away, but Hawke caught his arms in a grip just on the edge of pain and well within the realm of discomfort. The Champion's dark gaze bore into him, alight with desire, with domination. "I want you, Anders. I always have. This is right, this is just... I want to ease your pain, Anders. I want to make everything right, as it should be." His voice was hypnotic as he approached, pressing the length of his body against the mage's. He was strong, so strong, irresistible, unstoppable.

His lips on Anders' was like the breaking of a dam. The mage shook with a sudden flood of passion, overwhelming his mind, his heart, his body. With a muffled moan, he yearned forward and grasped the man he had ached for, had dreamed of, for years, for an eternity.

Hawke chuckled against his mouth. His touch was brusque, efficient, tearing Anders down like he'd tear down any adversary, mage or warrior. They tumbled onto the bed and Anders wasn't wearing his shirt, his pants were already half-way down his legs, his hair was loose around his face and shoulders. He felt drugged. He was alert to sensations, but groggy and placid. His entire body shook whenever Hawke touched him, but he could do nothing to respond. He was caught in the whirlwind of Hawke, the way he had always been caught in the whirlwind of Hawke.

He tried to reciprocate with clumsy fumbles, until Hawke just pressed his hands away and did everything himself. The Champion stripped them both with deft, certain fingers, leather and feathers alike crumpling to the floor. Anders couldn't think of where the man had gotten his strength after his long confinement, but he was irresistible.

"I love you," he breathed into Hawke's hair as the man devoured the skin of his throat and chest. He wanted Hawke to _know_. He wanted him to know how important this was.

Hawke didn't look up. "I know," he told Anders' nipple and flicked it with his tongue, startling the flesh upright.

_Look at me_, Anders begged silently, trying to rise on his elbows. But when he opened his mouth, all that issued forth was a rush of air._ I love you. Please, please, Hawke, tell me you love me. Tell me you need me. _

Hawke paused, as though he heard Anders' thoughts. His breath was hot on the tender skin just below Anders' navel, making the hairs stand on end all over the mage's body. Finally, his dark eyes lifted. A white crescent of teeth showed through his beard. "I know you're mine," he said.

And so Anders was.

/.\./.\

They returned to the common room in time for lunch. Anders followed behind Hawke in a daze. He was so tired, so numb, he barely knew where he was or what he was doing beyond following Hawke.

The Warden was there, but not as they had left him. The elf was still in a corner, but now he was taking shelter behind an overturned table. His bow was out and pulled and he was facing down a crowd of angry Tevinters. Dog lay in the debris of some smashed furniture, unconscious and accompanied by several human bodies.

"Oh good," Hawke murmured as they reached the ground floor, "I was looking forward to a fight." Then his face fell. "I have no weapons."

Hawke had a need, so Anders responded. "He does," the mage pointed out. He threw a ball of lightning at the nearest Tevinter. The man screamed and went down, dropping his dagger.

Four of the other Tevinters turned to face this new attack. Two wielded knives, one a sword, the last a staff. They started forward, but had barely taken a step before Hawke stealthed into their midst, claimed his new weapon and smoothly shoved it up under one man's chin.

"And that's mine, too," Hawke said cheerfully, snatching the second knife out of the dead man's hand.

"I can take care of this myself!" the Warden called. His arrows were hitting more furniture and magical shielding than flesh, though. He looked angry and tired and desperately unprotected.

Anders shifted into the mode of a healer, letting the power flow through him to rally the fallen canine.

It took him a moment to realize that the power wouldn't come. He was grasping for something that wasn't there.

"What?" he uttered.

"Anders," Hawke snapped. "Buff me!" The rogue moved sluggishly as he fended off the two other fighters and he already favoured one arm.

"Y-yes," the mage replied shakily. He concentrated, sent an elemental weapon boost, half expecting it to fail. But the magic came to him, rushed through him, and made Hawke deadlier.

Anders sent everything he had to the man and then to the Warden, almost melting with gratitude that he could still do that. The Warden, predictably, snarled at the mage, "Don't you flaming waste your magic on me! I don't need you!" He was like another Fenris.

Then Anders turned his attention to destroying the enemies swarming the Champion, _his _Champion_._ He threw ice, fire, lightning, stone, and, finally, with a howl that tore itself out of his own throat, he rose a wicked wind to destroy the hasty shield that the Tevinter mage erected. When the shield failed, Hawke was there to slide a knife into her back.

The three looked about themselves, at the ruins of what was once a fine common room. Dog got to his feet and shook, spattering drool and blood everywhere. The Warden grudgingly put his bow away and started searching the bodies. Hawke did the same, exclaiming happily when he found a restorative potion. Anders clung to his staff, letting it support his weight. He stared at his palm, clenching and releasing a fist, urging the pale green glow of a healing spell to appear and failing.

_What's happening to me?_

"What happened?" Hawke asked, echoing Anders' thought. The question was directed at the elf, though. "You decided you needed some target practice?"

"Hardly. Dog took offence when some Tevinter swine tried to use me to pay for his drinks." The elf sniffed. "They were about to run away when you finally... emerged." His amber glare found Anders. "I see your raging grief has been assuaged," he observed. "I'm so glad to know that Fenris will live on in your memory."

That should have hurt, but Anders felt little beyond faint remorse. He looked away from the elf's anger and did not reply.

"We'll have our justice soon enough," Hawke promised from where he dug through the pockets of a corpse that looked like a strange bird, there were so many arrows jutting from it.

"What's this? By all the old gods!" The portly figure of the innkeeper appeared in the doorway to the back rooms. Even the rolls around his chin lost their colour as he surveyed the damage. His head whipped around to address two frightened young elves hiding behind him. "Go! Call the guard!"

"Hold on now," Hawke said. He moved quickly, reaching the innkeeper's side before the man could do more than backpedal himself up against the door jamb. The rogue whispered something then that Anders couldn't hear. Hawke stood close, very close, to the shorter man, in a position that would have been intimate if not for the expression of pure terror that turned the Tevinter's face into something resembling melted wax.

The innkeeper blubbered something, tears appearing in his eyes though Hawke wasn't even touching him.

Hawke's answering murmur was faint.

"Yes, yes, yes," the innkeeper said hurriedly. "Anything you want!"

"Good." Hawke backed away. His smile was like a knife edge as he regarded the two elf children. "Pack us a lunch and then we'll leave."

"What did you tell him?" the Warden asked when Hawke picked his way back through the wreckage. The elf had crouched down to feed Dog some mabari crunches, but his posture was alert and wary.

"The truth." Hawke smirked. "We're very dangerous men, after all." He smiled at Anders and flexed his thin arm. "I think I'm getting better."

"Yes," Anders replied woodenly.

The Warden's attention snapped up to him. "Anders?" he said. "Are you all right?"

The question was strange coming from a man who hated him so much. Anders nodded, though. "I'm fine."

It didn't look like the Warden believed him, but the elf didn't persist.

They watched a team of slaves dispose of the dead, the Warden with pursed lips, obviously displeased, and Hawke lounging indolently in one of the few intact chairs. Anders stood wearily at the man's shoulder. Finally, a trembling child brought them parcels of hot food.

"We'll stay somewhere else tonight," Hawke decided as he got to his feet. "On the edge of the city. Somewhere nice."

The Warden didn't respond, but, when Hawke and Anders left the inn, the elf followed.

/.\./.\

It took another two days to fully resupply and then quit Vol Dorma. Hawke's health and vigour dramatically improved. He kept the two trophy Tevinter daggers and went with Anders to have them enchanted. Then, once the Warden's anger had cooled, the two rogues sparred in the courtyard of their new inn. The patrons of this establishment, far more lavish than the last and already objecting to the presence of an elf as a guest, looked on disapprovingly as that same elf beat a human in their midst, again and again. They did not openly object, though, not after Hawke spoke those quiet, unknown words to the inn's owner.

For those two nights, Hawke took Anders in a bed that was soft, as soft as the Circle's, as soft as the mayor's in Highever. The luxury reminded Anders of Fenris, though in a distant, washed-out kind of way. The Champion held him, devoured him, owned him, promised vengeance and peace. He demanded that Anders play lightning over their skins when they were slick with sweat. Anders made the man squirm, gasp and laugh. Then, as the darkness deepened, Hawke slept in the protection of Anders' arms.

Anders did not sleep. He had not slept since he gave Fenris up. He had not slept since Hawke had claimed him. His grip on reality was fading. He called on magic to keep him moving, to keep him going forward. When he watched over the Champion, the room was stained blue from the light cracking through his skin and escaping from his eyes.

The Warden did not comment on the relationship between his two companions, but his former lightheartedness was gone. He asked once more after Anders' well-being, in one of those rare moments when they were alone together, but, when the mage barely responded, that was as far as his concern went. He mostly kept to himself and his solitary card games, with Dog at his knee.

They departed from Vol Dorma on a fine, warm morning, mounted on well-bred horses that Hawke had somehow acquired. Rainless clouds covered the sky and turned the world grey. Without the urgency of rescue, the group travelled slowly, keeping to a pace that Hawke could tolerate. Anders watched the lush landscape go by with the feeling that he was staring into a twisted mirror, something they may have kept in a Circle repository. His perceptions and emotions were all wrong and he dwelt in memory or a dream, where there was still a Fenris and still feelings.

At Hawke's request, they stayed at the frequent roadside inns. No matter the size or fullness, Hawke could always get a room for himself and Anders and a room for the Warden. At one of them, Anders was quite certain that they had taken the owner's apartment.

"How do you do that?" the Warden asked one evening after the innkeeper personally brought their meal.

"Empty threats," Hawke replied easily. He chewed a piece of meat and the grease shone on his lip in the red firelight. "Years of experience and friendship with a Dwarven bard imbued me with the ability to bullshit my way into and out of anything."

The Warden snorted. "I don't doubt that."

There were few interruptions to their travels; the occasional merchant and one unlucky band of slavers who spotted the Warden and took them for a group of runaways. It didn't take long for them to figure out otherwise, but their belated attempt to escape met with failure and Hawke found himself a new pair of surprisingly nice boots.

At long last, they approached the Silent Plains. The air crackled, the sky took on a deeper tone of blue, the grassy landscape yellowed and whispered to them as they passed. Late one morning, after an hour's ride, the nameless border town appeared on the horizon, just a smear of dark brown on a sandy tapestry.

"Finally," the Warden sighed. "I'm glad to leave this place. It will be a good day when the rest of the Imperium crumbles away."

"But this is where we get all the best stuff," Hawke protested, lifting his leg to display his boot. "The Tevinters have all the old, expensive things."

The Warden made a thoughtful noise, but wasn't convinced. "It may not be worth the experience of being less than human."

"We've all experienced that. Fereldans in Kirkwall, elves, apostates." His expression became serious. "We must all fight to get what we want. No one will fight for you."

Memory agreed with Hawke. Once, long ago, Anders had fought for what he believed in, to free and protect himself and people like him.

No more. Now he fought for Hawke and Hawke alone.

They passed the sign post for the bone pit. Anders recognized it, but it sparked little more than a memory of an event, of other people.

In the town proper, the streets were nearly empty, of both life and shadows. Dust puffed under the hooves of their mounts and Dog's feet. The sun bore down on them, but Anders remembered it being hotter. He barely noticed it now.

"We can hire on with another caravan," the Warden suggested. "If we're in luck, someone will be crossing soon."

"If we're in luck," Hawke agreed.

There was nothing lucky about it. The group split up, the Warden to the nearest public house and Hawke to the lot just within the town where passing caravans could rest their wheels and their beasts. When the Champion rode into the trampled area, there were only two sets of wagons, one belonging to a Free March merchant of spices and one to a Nevarran small goods trader, judging by the painted images on their canvas walls. Hawke approached the spice merchant and made enough noise outside the lead wagon that a slender reed of a human woman in a long, gauzy dress finally appeared.

"What do you want?" she snapped. She was angry and red-faced; grey-streaked hair stuck to her sweaty brow. Either she had been trying to sleep through the heat or she had been wiling away the hours with a close friend.

"Do you have space for three passengers?" Hawke asked.

"My husband does not take _passengers_," she responded curtly.

"You will hire three guards, then," Hawke said. It wasn't a question. "Ensure that you have space and water for us."

Her expression darkened. "You presume much, serah! We will do no such thing!"

"The desert can be very dangerous." The Champion's voice was quiet, but carried perfectly over the dry air.

"We're going north!"

"Are you?" Hawke stared at her, his posture relaxed, his hands on the horn of his saddle, his expression only calm, reasonable assurance. "You will be far safer travelling with us, dear lady, I can promise you that."

She didn't have an immediate answer. She licked her lips and glanced about at the empty lot, finding it silent and still but for the flap of canvas in the playful breeze, the hiss of dust and sand. Her gaze took them both in, as though seeing the two men for the first time. Hawke wore danger like another layer of armour and Anders knew that his appearance had changed, that the spirit, the Fade itself, bled around his edges.

She backed away, retreating into the shadows of her wagon. "Domingo?" she called. "There are some men here to see you."

"Sometimes you need to hurt the ones you want to save," Hawke said conversationally to his companion. "We know it's better for them to travel with us, we just need to show them that. Show them how vulnerable they are to attack. Don't you agree, Anders?"

"Yes," the mage replied.

"I knew you would."

A very tanned and heavily tattooed man just as lean as his woman finally emerged, still tying loose pants at his waist. He squinted through the bright light at the interruption. "You want to go south?" he asked with a heavy Antivan accent. "Find someone else. We go north."

"That's not a good idea," Hawke said. "It's a dangerous road, serah, and you and your goods are... fragile." He glanced at Anders. "Show them how fragile."

Fire came like an old friend, surrounding Anders' hand.

"Y-you can't do that!" Domingo protested, the blade of his hand slashing the air. "The guard will take you, put you to the sword!"

"The guard?" Hawke repeated and arched an eyebrow. "Serah, I wonder if you know where you are. Here there are Nevarran and Tevinter border guard and highway patrols, but they won't help you. What is one less wagon to them? One less sack of stale spice to search, one less team of horse meat shitting on their roads, one less arrogant Antivan pig and his whore cluttering their country?" He held up a gloved finger. "Only one person can help you, friend. And that is me." Now he smiled. "In two weeks, you will either be well-protected and well-paid, or you will be doing a brisk trade in cinders."

Domingo swallowed audibly. Anders took him to be a strong and wily man, not an idiot. On the surface, Hawke's promises were hollow and may not have been taken seriously by a less intelligent man. The Champion's voice, though, his eyes and the flames that still danced on the skin of his companion, assured the merchant that Hawke spoke only the truth. Anders could nearly see the progression of thoughts through his mind; the deliberation between losing time and losing his goods.

Finally, Domingo's sleek black head nodded once. "I, uh, my wife forgot her favourite dress in Nevarra, serah. Once we have water, we will return to the south."

"How fortunate that we are here to provide our services," Hawke murmured. "Be ready in the morning."

Anders allowed the flames to dissipate.

"Ah, very good," Domingo stuttered. "We will be ready."

When Hawke and Anders departed, they left the sound of a desperate argument behind them.

They joined the Warden in a cool, stone-walled taproom built mostly underground. Through the smoke of several tables worth of hookas, they found the elf in a lively discussion with a male and female of his own kind. Hawke and Anders wound their way to his table and slid onto the bench next to their red-haired associate.

"These two are going south in a week," the Warden said. "They're waiting for a load of ore from the north. We may be able to join them."

"Well met," Hawke said cordially. "I've already booked us passage, though. With an Antivan spice merchant."

"Domingo?" said the female, tilting her narrow head. At Hawke's nod, her wide eyes blinked at them owlishly through the blue gloom. "But he travels north."

"He changed his mind."

The Warden glanced at them sharply.

"From the sounds of it, his wife forgot something in Nevarra. They were fighting about it when we left them." Hawke gestured over a server and ordered drink and food for himself and the mage. "He's in a hurry, at least. We leave in the morning."

"I am going to travel with these folk," the Warden declared.

This startled even Anders. The Warden was... leaving them? The mage blinked rapidly, startled by the stir of some emotion. The Warden couldn't leave. He was, had been, a friend. He was a connection to something that Anders had lost...

"I'm not fully recovered," Hawke said softly. "I would appreciate your continued guidance and help, Warden. If you accompany us to Kirkwall, I will see you richly rewarded."

"Riches are the least of what I need, Champion," the Warden replied dryly. "And you are strong enough. You best me more than half the time when we fight."

"Don't make me beg. Worse yet, don't make Anders beg." Hawke's broad palm settled on Anders' thigh.

In response, Anders gazed on the Warden sadly. "You were a friend, once," he said, the words coming to him, seemingly, from nowhere. "To me and to Fenris. You promised us that we would see Hawke safely home. There are many miles left to go."

The Warden winced. "That's low, Anders," he rebuked. "I made that promise to a dead man and a traitor, and you expect me to fulfil it?"

"We need your help, Warden," Hawke added. "To get home. And to get our revenge against Danarius. If Fenris was your friend, don't you want to end the life of the man who took his?"

"I _know_ who took his life-"

"And," Hawke rode over the Warden's growl, "we can help your new friends." He nodded at the other two elves. "If you wish it, I will speak with Domingo and gain these good folk passage."

"I don't think-"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the female. "Not many merchants will take an elf. The ore peddler was our only choice, but he is so very late in returning. If you can take us, we will pay, we will work, we will do whatever you wish!"

"Your conversation and skill at cards will suffice," Hawke replied genially. "We'll speak with Domingo at once."

"We have our own mounts and our own supplies, for the most part." It was the male who spoke now, in a surprisingly deep voice. He would have been handsome if not that one of his ears had been cut away and burn scars covered the side of his neck. "We need only water and protection."

"And you shall have it," Hawke promised.

After eating, they left the Warden with his new acquaintances. The man did not look pleased, though he could not reasonably object against Hawke's arguments. When Hawke wanted something, no one could deny him.

/.\./.\

The journey south across the Silent Plains was far less eventful than the trip north. There were no dragons, no sand storms, no rambunctious dwarves. There were only the four wagons, Domingo's dozen hirelings, the three elves, and the two men on horseback. Anders learned no new magic and played no games. He rode silently and protected Hawke from the worst of the elements, keeping him cool and shaded.

The Warden kept company with the elves, riding with them during the day, talking and gambling with them late into the night. He slept near them, too, in a low tent on the soft, shifting sands. Hawke and Anders took the bunk that Domingo grudgingly provided them, in a wagon heavily scented with incense and cooking spices.

Once, Domingo sent a man to murder them in the night, when even the whisper of the wind had ceased. This man may have been a Crow, or may have once been some other brand of assassin, but he was unprepared for what he found when he slithered under the edge of the canvas. Hawke lay in the arms of his vigilant, softly glowing guardian. Anders stared at the creature and wanted it to burn away. The assassin couldn't even scream before his blood boiled away, his muscles and flesh became ash, his clothing turned to dust. In the morning, Anders did not speak of the attempt, but the large, greasy stain on the wooden floor was evidence enough.

When they saw Domingo next, the merchant was grey and stricken under his swarthy skin. He did not try again.

Anders dreamt that they traversed the desert, crossed the Minanter River, and continued to Nevarra City after abandoning a relieved Domingo and his wife. The two elves travelled with them. Sometimes, Anders felt their eyes on him, but they were unimportant, inconsequential. The mage's attention rested solely on Hawke.

"We'll take ship to Starkhaven and go south from there," the Champion decided.

It was as he said. No one could deny Hawke. Not in Tevinter and not in Nevarra. He coerced the elves to continue to Kirkwall because he wanted the Warden to continue to Kirkwall. Why that was, Anders neither knew nor cared, but it was so. They booked passage on a flat-bottomed river boat.

Before they departed, Hawke desired to visit the Necropolis that riddled the hills outside of Nevarra City. "I've heard so much about it," the rogue explained.

They went alone. The narrow, hard-packed roads were lined with bent willows and innumerable shrines bedecked in cheap jewels and rotting flowers. The sun sat low to the east, moving between the bracken-furred heights of the hills around them. It was a still, cool morning, strangely damp after the desert journey. They passed huddles of black-cloaked women on their pilgrimages to the preserved remains of their loved ones. More than once, they edged their mounts around small congregations listening to men and women preaching the Maker's love outside of the many, many mausoleums.

The main body of the Necropolis was as immense as a city, though every building was a burial mound and every street was only wide enough to admit the passage of men carrying a coffin between them. The Champion's hidden goal had little to do with exploring the unusual collective grave. They made their way directly to the old chantry at the centre.

Like most old buildings, the chantry had once been Tevinter. Under its cloak of Andrastian banners and sombre sisters and mothers, the chantry was black and hard, its spires striking arrogantly against the gathering clouds. Hawke climbed the broad steps and nodded congenially at the sisters who hailed him with their passages of love and strength.

The main hall echoed with the voices of the faithful. Hawke and Anders strode unfaltering through the warm glow of lamps and polished wood toward the altar. Sisters and their armoured protectors watched them pass, their frowns growing as they observed Anders' dark feathered coat and the glittering, bejewelled staff in his hand. Hawke had purchased it for him and it made no pretence to be anything other than what it was, much like the faintly glowing man who carried it.

An aged male templar waylaid them before they reached the altar, moving to block their path. "Hold," he said. "You're not welcome here."

"I thought Andraste welcomed all men," Hawke replied glibly.

The templar's face reddened.

"The sick, the weak, the poor," the Champion continued. "Of course, I'm none of those." He dug into his purse and pulled out a handful of sovereigns. "But I have some prayers to offer. My friend, too."

The templar started to answer, his ruddy cheeks purpling further, but a slender sister appeared beside him and lay a hand on his shoulder plate.

"My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours," she chanted serenely. "For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one."

"Sister, I doubt this creature walks in the sight of the Maker." The templar shook his head and squared his shoulders with a creak of metal on metal. "You know what happened in Kirkwall. No Maleficar is going to enter these halls."

"Maleficar?" Hawke repeated. "My friend here is as devout as any man. He nearly joined the templars himself." The Champion dumped his sovereigns into the limp grasp of the sister. "We're here to pray, nothing more. My ancestor waits in the old catacombs." He nodded toward a small door at the back of the hall, beyond the altar. "You're welcome to escort us, ser templar."

The sister smiled up at the grizzled man encouragingly.

The templar sighed. "Very well."

"You have my thanks." Hawke flourished a deep bow to both man and woman.

Their sullen guide led them from the main hall, through narrow passageways of naked stone that slanted into the earth, to the deep burial chambers. Here, the air was cool, damp and musty. The trio passed bizarre Tevinter statues and their even more bizarre shadows; shadows that leapt as the group walked by and the wind of their movement made the torches flicker. The doors on either side of the passages gaped like black mouths, the carvings of skulls and beasts around their lintels slithering as though alive. They went down and down, burrowing into a realm of death and waiting.

"When was your ancestor buried?" the templar asked. His expression was troubled as he looked around. They were far below the chantry, in an area that was purely Tevinter, purely foreign.

"A long, long time ago," Hawke replied.

They reached an area where the torches stopped. The templar grabbed one off of the wall. "No one comes down here," he said. His eyes were wide, glistening in the light.

"I do."

Hawke took the lead, Anders close to his shoulder, and the templar clinked behind them. Their shadows leered ahead.

Finally, they reached a round chamber lined with rows of sarcophagi. Other than the niches set into the wall, a few worn carvings and some dusty cobwebs, the room was empty.

"I've never been down here before," the templar admitted. He stood in the centre of the room and turned in a slow circle. "All Tevinter, I'd wager. The Nevarrans stopped three floors ago."

Hawke hummed his agreement. He paced around the edge of the room, trailing his gloved fingers over the sarcophagi. All were broken, their ornate stone plaques smashed and their contents looted. Ancient bones, some mere grey splinters, lay in drifts against their former vessels. The rogue came to rest and peered into an unremarkable cavity at shoulder height. He reached in, his entire arm disappearing, dug around for a moment in the mess of ruined artifacts, and then made a happy exclamation.

There was a click, immediately followed by an immense grinding of stone on stone from the earth around them.

The floor shook. The templar, who had been investigating what was left of an inscription on a sarcophagus near the door, cried out and leapt away, back into the passage. Hawke pulled Anders closer to the wall. Icy air blasted up from a crack in the floor that very quickly became a staircase spiralling deeper into the earth.

"What is this?" the templar cried when the grinding stopped. He stood at the edge of the pit and stared down.

"A tomb, like any other." Hawke calmly strode to the top of the stairs and descended, armour jingling lightly with his jaunty step. Anders followed.

"But... No one knew this was here!"

"Is that so?" Hawke murmured.

Their steps echoed above and below. The light from the templar's torch wavered uncertainly as the man holding it lagged behind. As it diminished, Anders' blue stain became more prominent, allowing the two men to see the crumbling steps before them.

At the bottom of the stairs, they found another chamber. This one looked... used. It was not a tomb, but a work shop of sorts, though abandoned long, long ago. The equipment on the long tables was wreathed in webs, the tables and chairs and the floor itself were carpeted in dust.

Any normal dungeon or tomb would have some noise or movement, if only an insect, a shade or an animated skeleton, but this room was completely silent, completely still, as though frozen in time.

The templar joined them, his neck twisting as he gazed around. "What... is this?" he uttered again.

"I already told you." Hawke didn't spare a glance for the aged templar. Instead, he paced directly to a book stand set apart from the tables. He brushed dust off of the open tome and carefully closed it. "Perfect," he whispered, holding out an arm to his companion. "Anders, I need you to read this for me."

The mage joined the Champion, falling comfortably into the rogue's half-embrace. The book was bound in leather, or something like leather, flesh-coloured and twisted. The words and images on the cover had been burnt into it. The edges of the marks looked like the burning had taken place when the skin's owner was still wearing it. Anders' followed the words, his fingers tracing the air over the marks.

"Do you understand them?" Hawke asked.

"Almost," Anders replied. "I need to study them."

The symbols seemed to squirm under his gaze, as though trying to get away and hide in the creases of the old skin. The magic they held was different from what he knew. Very different. There was something abhorrent in their jagged shapes.

_But I'm dreaming_, the mage thought. _So it's all right. _

"We'll take it with us," Hawke decided.

Anders gently picked it up, like he might an animal. It was warm, supple and nearly throbbing with terrible life.

"Hey!" the templar interrupted. He stormed toward them, armour clanking and sword singing out of its sheath. "You can't take that! This is some Tevinter pit of blood magic! It must be cleansed!"

"Easy, friend," Hawke said. He disengaged from Anders and held his hands out at his sides. "It's nothing like that."

The templar scowled and jabbed his torch toward the rest of the room. "And what do you call all this?" he demanded.

Hawke smiled. "I told you; it's a tomb. Your tomb."

Hawke's dagger flew with unerring accuracy and struck the aged templar in the eye. The man slumped backward with a mighty crash of steel on stone. His torch rolled, spitting and hissing, until it came up against a table leg.

"Shit." Hawke swooped forward and snatched it up before the flame could do more than taste the dry wood. "We can't have that... There's still a lot of nice stuff down here." He held up the light, illuminating the heaps of arcane technology glittering through the dust. Then he shrugged and turned away. "We'll come back for it later. Come on, Anders. There's vengeance to be had." The Champion paused to wrench his dagger free from the templar's skull and extinguish the torch in the resulting gush of blood. "This is only the first of many."

In the blue darkness, they climbed back to the surface. Anders followed, dreaming of dust and violence, the book curled warmly in the crook of his arm.


	17. Chapter 17

In which Hawke has plans and the author dives into the AU pool.

**Disclaimer:**Dragon Age still isn't mine. That's probably a good thing!

**Playlist Recommendations**:  
Goldfrapp – Dreaming, Strict Machine, Utopia

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Seventeen**

Kirkwall had, through the tenacity of her Guard Captain, the ingenuity of her merchant class, the discipline of her loyal templars, and the bravery of a few mages, managed to stay standing and even repair some of the damage caused by, well, everyone. After her experiences in both Ferelden and Kirkwall, Aveline was beginning to think that she was destined to live in the places that the rest of the universe bore some grudge against.

_I suppose it's been through worse, though_, she thought reasonably and cracked a yawn. The reports and requests on her desk briefly swam in her vision as her tired eyes watered. The early mornings and late nights were catching up with her. _This city already withstood hundreds of years of rebellion and upheaval. It'll stand several hundred more._ Little wonder that Aveline was so fond of the place; she and Kirkwall had that much in common. Where Aveline bore a shield, Kirkwall bore stone and metal to protect her people.

The fiery-haired Captain of the Guard sat in her office, at her desk, at some ridiculous hour of the morning trying to catch up on her reading before the many, many representatives of the guilds, craftspeople, merchant committees, etcetera, could interrupt her. Fortunately for her sanity and her backlog, at least half of them couldn't find the guards' barracks, much less her office, which was one of the many reasons she hadn't moved into the administrative sections of the Viscount's Keep.

One shining light in the darkness was that her people were still safe, even if they were confused, afraid and angry. Her guards, that wonderful force of loyal men and women, had never let up in their duties. Donnic himself was a rousing voice for them and she had never been more proud or in love with her husband.

After something like an hour, Aveline's peace was interrupted by a young girl carrying breakfast. That was an interruption that the Guard Captain could tolerate. However, only a moment later, there came another interruption, a sharp, wizened little man who Aveline strongly suspected of following Aveline's breakfast tray to find the captain.

"I beg an audience," he declared, pushing himself past the lone guard recruit Aveline had spared to watch her own door.

"No audiences here," Aveline responded curtly. "Only me."

"Ser Aveline," the little man had the audacity to begin.

"I am no chevalier," snapped the shield-woman. "I am the Captain of the Guard and I am very, very busy."

"Ah, yes, my apologies, captain, I meant no offence." He bowed and bowed again, sweeping his cap off of a balding head. He struck Aveline as distastefully Orlesian, though he was missing the accent. "I'm here to speak on behalf of my brother importers of fine magical artifice-"

"No," Aveline interrupted before he could continue. "You speak to Enchanter Llewellyn and Knight-Captain Cullen about magical concerns." That should keep him busy.

"That is, I have, Captain Aveline. The two will not come to an agreement. I had hoped that you might step in and-"

"And what?"

"Add your voice and reason to their discussion?"

"My voice and reason are busy keeping people alive. Unless you have an issue of public safety, I ask that you leave." Her breakfast was swiftly cooling.

"Well!" The little man straightened. "I do hope, dear lady, that one day you have need of our services and I can extend to you the same generosity you have extended to me! Good day!"

Aveline could barely restrain her laughter as the man stormed out. She snickered into her palm, took a spoonful of the sweet, nutty gruel that they liked to feed her, and then inwardly cursed as her door opened _again_. After a hurried swallow, she griped, "Can't you people leave me in peace-" and then fell silent in surprise.

"You'd hate it," Hawke said. "If they left you in peace, you'd go looking for trouble. Go ahead and eat your breakfast. I'll keep watch." He turned to speak to someone outside her door, probably Fenris, if Aveline knew the Champion, and then shut it firmly.

She was still staring blankly at him when he came to rest in one of her chairs. He looked like typical Hawke, handsome and roguish, but always a bit too scruffy, as though he never quite had the time to devote to mundane activities like regular baths and shaving. His face was thinner than she remembered and his unfamiliar, spiked, Tevinter-styled armour was covered in road dust, but he seemed in good health and spirits.

"Don't let me stop you," he prompted. "I've watched beautiful women eat before."

Her silence was broken by a loud guffaw and then a suspicious, "Hawke, what do you want?"

"Not even a hello? It's been months, hasn't it? Eight, maybe? I want to know how you are."

"Well enough, all things considered. Hello, Hawke." She finally bestowed a warm smile on the man. "How are you? How were your travels. How is Fenris?"

"Very well, actually. We had to separate in Tevinter, but he'll be coming into the city soon."

"Tevinter?" Her copper brows shot up. "I thought it would be unwise for him to travel there."

"He had some unfinished business." He sprawled in a chair, stretching out in comfortable, pure Hawke fashion, as he had reclined in her chairs so often in the past, bringing her his concerns, helping her deal with hers. Apart from Wesley and Donnic, he was undoubtedly her best and most staunch friend. "I don't suppose my mansion escaped the looting?"

"Unscathed," she assured him. "Orana is still living there, actually. I imagine you have the best-kept home in Kirkwall."

He chuckled. "That girl is the best thing that ever happened to my carpets."

She shook her head, but her smile remained on lips that had been turned down in a frown far too often in the past half-year. "I've missed you," she said thoughtlessly. Then she hurriedly added, "And the others. Well. Varric and Fenris, maybe. And Merrill a little bit, for all the girl was worth about seven times her weight in trouble. I guess I miss the adventures."

"I knew you would." He winked. "For all the complaining. I took you where no man has ever taken you before."

That startled another laugh out of her. "Yes, down into the most obscure dungeons, sewers, spider pits, foundries and the Dark Roads. Donnic only takes me to fine restaurants and moon-lit rose gardens."

"That's no way to treat a lady. I'll have to talk to that man."

"No, no!" She waved him down. "I wouldn't want him to try to compete with you!"

"So tell me what's become of Kirkwall," he said. "Tell me what I've come home to. After my travels, I think I'm ready to settle in and do some good."

"Really? That's hard to believe. You have more wanderlust than a migratory goose."

"I've changed," he assured her. "Older, wiser, tired of blisters on my feet. So I've come home for good."

She still didn't believe him, but the idea pleased her, anyway. Kirkwall's Champion, for all the trouble he had caused, was beloved by the people. He was probably one of the few men capable of bringing peace and order back to the city and the Free Marches as a whole. Perhaps even to the entire continent, still reeling from the fall of the Circles.

"All right," she finally agreed. "I'll bite. We still don't have a Viscount and the Chantry is still recovering, but Seneschal Bran, Knight-Captain Cullen, Enchanter Llewellyn and myself have formed a council to jointly rule. Of course, most of the time we're trying to keep the guilds, gangs and mage covens from getting too much power. Most of the laws regarding mages and Templars need to be revised, including trade laws. I'm the lucky one... My only concern is safety; I don't have to worry about politics."

"And the rest of the Free Marches? Has anyone made any moves to roll over us?"

"I think they're too busy with their own mages to bother. For now. As it is, I'm keeping a watch on the edges of our territory."

Hawke nodded, his expression unusually thoughtful. "It sounds like some central leadership is required." His gaze sharpened. "If I were to make a bid for Viscount, would you support me?"

"You?" Aveline blurted, though she shouldn't have been surprised. "You really want to sit in that chair all day?"

He nodded.

"Well..." As much as she loved Hawke—he was the closest thing to family that she had—she was aware of his failings. One of which was keeping the peace. He was a man of action and chaos, of change. Though, perhaps change was exactly what Kirkwall needed. Perhaps they needed a leader who could flex and adapt, like the acrobat that the rogue could be.

"I would keep the council, of course. Every leader needs his advisers." He ruffled his hair. "And I will always trust you to keep me on the level, keep me pointed in the right direction. I know the people are in your heart and I can trust your advice. But I also know that, as much as you can lead the guard, you can't rally the people."

"That is true."

"I can."

"Y...yes. You can." She firmed her resolve. "All right, Hawke. If you make a bid for the Viscount's office, you'll have my support and the support of the Guard." Before he could respond, she held up a warning finger. "But only if you swear to listen to me and the others. Your time of rash actions is over, Hawke. If you lead a city, you are responsible for that city. You serve the city."

He nodded his head low. "You have my word, Lady Captain."

She watched him for a silent moment. Then she shook her head, bemused. "What a strange morning... I suppose we'll have you make the announcement to the council and the guild representatives. You're in luck; our weekly meeting is today, in the afternoon. Before then, I recommend that you prepare your speech and brush the dust off your clothes."

"As you say." He looked down at himself ruefully. "Is Jean Luc still around?"

"He's still a pillar of Hightown merchant society."

"Excellent." He stood and bowed deeply to her erect figure. "Until this afternoon, Guard Captain."

"Until then, Champion."

She watched him leave, as she had watched him leave so often in the past. Soon, she would stand at his shoulder again, her shield lifted, even if it was a shield of words instead of wood, steal and hardened leather. It almost felt like he hadn't been gone at all, but that the challenge ahead of him was far greater than any she had helped him face before.

/.\./.\

Aveline arrived in the council chambers early. After Hawke's visit, her distraction had been absolute, her focus gone. After trying and failing to pen the same memorandum four times, she had, instead, taken her chaotic mind to the training yard and worked with some of the recruits, letting them bash her shield while she gave them pointers on their sword work. Then, after a lunch she had barely tasted, she had tidied herself and strode the long, busy halls of the Keep, coldly ignoring the calls of politicians and aristocrats waiting to ambush the unwary council member.

For a short time, she was alone. She paced the room, surveying the art on the walls. All of it seemed to come from a different area of Thedas, including a small, geometric figure from Par Vollen. This room was a fair portrayal of Kirkwall herself, a melting pot for the weak, the lost, the lonely and desperate. A home for the homeless.

_My home_, the Guard Captain thought warmly.

The clink of heavy plate and chain announced Knight-Captain Cullen, representative of both the Templars and, for a time, the Chantry. Aveline turned to greet him with a cool nod.

"Knight-Captain," she said.

"Guard Captain," he replied in like kind. Cullen had become a hard man in the past year, but his eyes had been opened by Meredith's plummet from grace. His hardness came, not from the usual Templar's unthinking hatred and fear, but from his unwavering determination not to follow his predecessor. Aveline had seen him literally force himself to take a side with a mage against the former regime, force himself to see what he had never seen before. In all, he was a good and reliable man, though not kind, and he sometimes forgot to see the humans to whom his far-sighted laws and orders applied.

He seated himself and stared down at a sheaf of papers. Aveline watched him and felt a twinge of sympathy when the Templar released a tiny, nearly imperceptible sigh. _He needs a Viscount_, she decided. _We all do_.

Seneschal Bran was next. As the youngest of the council, he seemed to have the most to prove. This made him more active, but also prone to mistakes and overlooking details, not because he was lacking in any way, but because he seemed to be racing himself and time. He seemed to want to fix Kirkwall's problems as quickly as possible, without realizing that getting ahead of himself would turn him into a problem.

"Captains," he said.

"Seneschal," Aveline replied. Cullen kept his silence.

Finally, Enchanter Llewellyn arrived. She was a proud woman, but tempered with true compassion and empathy. Aveline held a lot of respect for her, given how she had managed to take on the challenges facing the mages. She had so far maintained a balance on a fine line between the former atmosphere of mage captivity and slavery, and the people's fear of mage supremacy. Though she would not allow the mages to be replaced in the Gallows, she was quick to punish any mage who delved into blood magic or consorting with demons. From what Aveline had heard, she was, herself, working on a way to reliably detect abominations.

"Enchanter." Aveline's greeting was warm.

"Aveline." Llewellyn, for some reason, did not hold to titles. The mage took her seat with a tiny grunt of effort; she was somewhat rounder than most, something of a testament to her long days of study. "Cullen and Bran. Always a pleasure."

The two men murmured their own greetings. They were all distracted, busy with their own fragments of governance. Even with the meetings, it was difficult for their ad hoc government to function as a unit. More often than not, from Aveline's perspective, the three law-makers were pulling in different directions. Again, she felt gratitude that she had only the one perspective to concern herself with.

Before the guild representatives arrived, the council members had a chance to talk amongst themselves. Their conversations were usually the grumbling of the supporting keystones of any structure. Aware that this would soon change, Aveline stayed out of the group commiseration and thought about Hawke. More and more, his election to Viscount seemed like a good idea.

Before long, the guard at the door announced the representatives from the guilds of trade, crafts, music, masonry and many more. City administrators were also invited, the people who disseminated information from the council to the city and back again. Some were bored, some were greedy, some were ambitious, some asked themselves why they were there. Aveline watched them carefully, trying to predict their reactions to what was to come. She knew that there were those fighting for power who would object, but hopefully the voices of the people who wanted stability would be louder. Hopefully, they would remember that the Champion of Kirkwall had lost nearly everything in defence of a city that had, at his arrival, soundly repudiated him.

"Order," Bran called when the long table was full, apart from the Viscount's seat at the head. The Seneschal stood to the right of the empty, high backed chair, and rapped a gavel on its base. "This meeting is hereby called to order!"

The crowd slowly quieted, intimate conversations grudgingly coming to an end.

"Here are the week's announcements..."

The meeting progressed as so many had in the past. The concerns brought forward at the last meeting had been addressed, or tabled until a future time. New issues were brought up. Decisions concerning the guilds were voted on, often sparking long, tiring debates. Aveline knew from experience that these meetings could drag on from the bright afternoon to the depths of the night.

The chamber door quietly opened and admitted a straight-backed, aristocratically featured young guardsman. Aveline only noticed because she was watching for it. The guard caught her eye and saluted. Aveline released a sigh of relief and elbowed Bran in the ribs. When she had his attention, she nodded at the door. He frowned and stood.

"Excuse me, Representative," the Seneschal said loudly, interrupting the current speaker, a woman giving a passionate speech about the pricing caps placed on Orlesian silks. "What is it, guard?"

The young man saluted again, with the flair that had granted him his post. "Serah Hawke seeks an audience with the council, Seneschal."

The gathered representatives erupted in a rush of mutters and whispers.

Bran handled himself well. "Bid him enter."

The guard backed away and opened the door wide for Aveline's second shock of the day.

There was Hawke, dressed in the fine garb of a warrior noble, his silver, red and black colours a perfect match for the ridiculous images floating around since Varric had begun his quest to edify the Champion. His twin daggers, though, were blessedly absent, otherwise Aveline would have been forced to disarm the man she would put in power. His face was clean, his beard and hair trimmed. His eyes were dark and gleaming with intelligence and confidence as he observed the shocked Kirkwall officials.

Following him was a man whom Aveline would have been very happy never to see again. Anders, the Renegade, the Destroyer, the Murderer. Aveline had many terms for him, and those were the most complimentary. Whenever she passed the ruin of the Chantry, she cursed his name.

He looked different, though, far different, from the sullen, outspoken and arrogant mage that she had been forced to associate with. For one, he was thinner. The planes of his face were sharp, the bones standing out under thin, pale skin. For another, he was glowing. She recognized the light from seeing the man in battle, seeing him struggle with the spirit of Justice that had turned him into an abomination. He was at peace now, though, his movements slow and calm, his expression almost serene. But his eyes, once a washed-out brown, were now tinged blue, and light seemed to shelter where shadows should have been.

_What happened to him?_ Aveline wondered, concerned more for the safety of the city than for the mage. He could self-destruct and die a terrible death for all she cared, so long as it was far from her people.

He still wore a dark, feathered coat and carried an intricate staff, but there seemed to be more ornaments adorning his person, as though he, or someone else, had decided he needed to be both glowing _and_ shiny.

Following the placid mage was a tattooed elf with shockingly red hair, a mabari at his heel. Unlike Hawke and Anders, the elf wore only ill-used armour and a frown.

Hawke stood at the head of the table, close to the Viscount's chair. He placed his gauntleted hands on his hips and said, "Well met, serahs. I know you're busy, so I'll make this quick. I notice a gap in your numbers. If you wish it, I will fill that gap." After a moment of silence, he added, "I'm making a bid for the Viscount's position."

The mutters and whispers rose into a swell of noise. Reactions ranged from outrage to joy. Those ambitious few who Aveline had already noticed were the most resentful against the Champion's audacious declaration. Those who had come from common or foreign roots were the most receptive, and they immediately tried to shout down their foes with recollections of the Champion's achievements.

Through it all, Hawke folded his arms and calmly watched.

After some few chaotic minutes, Bran, with a lot of banging and shouting, managed to get the assemblage to go quiet. "Serah Hawke," he said, "we acknowledge your bid. Is there anyone on the council who will nominate you?" He was already glancing down at Aveline, his expression stating just how unimpressed he was with the lack of warning.

Aveline started to stand, but Enchanter Llewellyn beat her to it. "I will nominate Serah Hawke," she declared, heaving herself upright. "I trust few others to treat mages with the fairness that we deserve." Her round face fell, though, when she looked to Anders. Aveline could see that the woman wanted to ask why the abomination and criminal stood in their midst, though she wisely held her tongue. Not many knew the Renegade by sight, perhaps only four in the room knew that the mage behind the Champion had destroyed their Chantry and started a class war.

"I object." Cullen, predictably, leapt to his feet to begin a debate with his counter-part. "Serah Hawke has demonstrated a severe lack of responsibility for his actions, at times siding with mages and dooming innocent people to their deaths. Including his own mother!"

"Do not speak of my mother," Hawke said softly. "Her spirit rests with the Maker and I would not have you sully her memory with your petty politics." His expression did not change, but his eyes, his eyes were like blades themselves. Aveline shivered at the sight.

Cullen faltered. "I... I did not mean to speak ill of, of your lady mother, Champion. But the truth remains that your, uh, leniency toward the mages resulted in many deaths."

"People die, Knight-Captain. That does not excuse cruelty."

A mutter went around the table. It was surprisingly favourable.

"I object as well," Bran interjected. "Serah Hawke, you are a foreigner in these lands. A Fereldan refugee, accompanied by other refugees and a, a Fereldan mutt." He gestured at Hawke's implacable companions. "How can we trust you to keep the interests of Kirkwall at heart?"

"You don't need to trust it," Hawke answered. "Haven't my actions spoken for themselves? Not only was my family amongst the Kirkwall nobility, but my home in Ferelden was Lothering, long since destroyed. I made Kirkwall my home. A home I fought for, bled for and supported." He smirked then. "And aren't you all refugees? Kirkwall was a Tevinter city full of freed slaves, shipped here from all over Thedas. I am as much a native as any of you."

Aveline finally took her opportunity to stand. "I support you, Hawke," she said familiarly. It was common knowledge that she was his friend and an ally on and off the battle field. "In Kirkwall's darkest hours, you protected her. Whenever she called, you answered. I know that you have always, in truth, been her Champion." That last part was a little difficult to say, if only because Anders stood there like some kind of glowing testament to Hawke's folly. If only it was Fenris at Hawke's side! Then Aveline could be reminded of Hawke's loyalty and solid opposition to slavery.

She sat down to a smattering of applause and a few grumbles.

Hawke lifted his hands for silence. "Allow me to say my piece, serahs. I make no empty promises, I speak no lies. This is a turning point for Kirkwall. Are you going to follow a path that will take you back into obscurity, perhaps overcome by another nation, perhaps falling into chaos until criminals, raiders and pirates take over? Or will you allow me to lead you on a path of strength, victory and pride? We have the opportunity now to shake off the past and re-shape the future. To become what we're meant to be."

His speech was surprisingly moving, surprisingly aggressive. Aveline had had no idea that the man was so interested in leadership.

"The days ahead will not be easy. That, I can guarantee. But nothing good is easy, and nothing easy is good. We will work and we will fight. Kirkwall's white stone will reflect the glory of the people she houses."

"What of the poor?" someone asked.

"What of them?" Hawke replied. "There is so much work to be done, the city alone can hire an army of the impoverished and give them food and shelter for their sweat."

"What of foreign policy?" called another. "What of trade?"

"Kirkwall will be a terrible enemy, a strong ally, a strong partner in trade. In fact, with me stands the Hero of Ferelden himself!"

That was met with silence. Aveline, too, didn't know what to think, having never seen the Hero of Ferelden in person. For all she knew, Hawke had plucked a Dalish elf from some forest somewhere to trot out in front of the council. She was nearly insulted.

The elf sighed and the mabari whined. "Hawke, they don't know who I am. But, yes, I will advise King Alistair that Kirkwall is a valuable ally and a dangerous enemy." He lifted a blood red eyebrow as he addressed the table. "Any army with Hawke at its head would be formidable, anyway."

"He did kill the Arishok single-handedly," murmured an anonymous voice.

There was a round of agreement.

"May I mention, as well," Hawke concluded with a sly, conspiratorial grin, "that I can add considerably to the city's treasury."

Money was a language altogether different. The applause was strong now, most faces shining with approval.

After that, there was an inevitable slide into agreement, the combined voices of the representatives and administrators eventually convincing Bran, if not Cullen, to vote in favour of Hawke's ascension. With three votes out of the quorum of four, Hawke could finally stalk forward and seat himself in the Viscount's ornate, high-backed chair.

Aveline watched her friend, listened to the applause of the assembly, and hoped that she had made the right decision.


	18. Chapter 18

RIP Warden ;_;

I could save you from the Archdemon, but I could not save you... from myself.

...

**Disclaimer:** Dragon Age... Why you give me such an angsty sand box to play in?

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Anders dreamt of crowds. He dreamt that he stood with Hawke on the white stone balcony of the Viscount's Keep to address the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of screaming people who had crushed their way into the courtyard. The Champion, newly crowned the Viscount, gave a speech that moved women to tears and men to hug their neighbours. Under the banners of Kirkwall and House Amell, dressed in heavy robes modified to suit a warrior's regime, the Viscount's crown gleaming from his black hair, Hawke spoke of power, glory, a new identity, a new strength. Anders didn't really hear it. His attention was halfway in the Fade, where he could see the ebb and surge of the minds and hearts around him, watchful for any attack on Hawke.

"What do you make of this?" Aveline stood behind Hawke with the three other council members, putting her nearly abreast of Anders. "You destroyed this city. Now you have a chance to rebuild it."

The mage was vaguely aware that she was trying to hurt him, that she was angry at his actions. But this was a dream. None of it mattered. He gazed at her, at the stone under her skin, and then turned away.

"Asshole," she muttered under the roaring crowd.

There were other speeches. With only a week's warning, the ambassadors from Orlais, Antiva, Nevarra and Ferelden had managed to put together a way to greet and welcome the new Viscount to the political realm, though they seemed uncertain how to address the refugee-cum-adventurer-cum-noble-cum-Champion. Some spoke of his prowess in battle, some of his decisive manoeuvring to get Meredith out of power, some of his philanthropy. It was all glowing and most of it lies. Anders could see their fear and worry at this unknown element in an already tumultuous mix.

The representatives of Kirkwall came next, bringing gifts, couching their demands in candied words. All of them wanted to curry favour with their new lord.

Anders saw the seven assassins before they had done more than edge their way into their places, some at the front of the crowd, some tucked around the edges. Five men and two woman, archers and a blood mage, their weapons hidden under well-crafted enchantments. They knew they would die. Anders couldn't read them from this far, but he could see that much, the bleakness and rage. He thought it likely that they had been hired to do this, given their poor clothing and high quality weapons. Perhaps their families would be paid well.

In a lull in the speeches, one of the men screeched, "You're a traitor to Ferelden!" The group launched an attack of glittering arrows, their magic sparkling in the noon sun.

Aveline rushed forward to cover her Viscount with her shield and body. She needn't have bothered. Anders had already protected Hawke in layers of shielding that only an assassin with a trebuchet _might_ have been able to break through. Even enchanted, the arrows slowed as though they had been shot into a tub of invisible tree sap and fell to the tiles at Hawke's feet. Only one hit its mark, because the assassin had been incompetent and accidentally shot a woman at the front of the crowd. She went down with a shriek.

The screams of joy turned to screams of terror as the crowd tried to get away from the assassins and the assassins tried to keep attacking and avoid apprehension by the City Guard at the same time. The council shouted orders at their respective divisions, but there was no way for soldiers to get into the crush of people.

Hawke stood back and laughed heartily, his arms crossed. His grin found Anders and he nodded.

Anders reached for the attackers. The man was unable to resist the crushing prison that Anders caught him in. The next, a woman, cried out in agony as he burned her from the inside. Another, trying to escape via the statuary around the edges of the yard, managed to get up about twenty feet before a blast of wind sent him plummeting to the roiling crowd and stone below him. When he moved on to the last three, Head Enchanter Llewellyn, a glowing figure in her own right, had already taken out two of them. Anders dispatched the last with enough psychic horror to make his eyes bleed before he collapsed.

Four remained alive. Hawke would be pleased.

Still chuckling, Hawke held out his hands to calm his people. "And so fall my enemies and the enemies of Kirkwall. Have no fear. I will protect you with my life. Never again, will Kirkwall suffer the boot of oppression or a leader too weak to fight for his people." He stepped forward and leaned over the balcony rail. "Dear lady, are you badly injured?"

A guardsman and a mage had come to her aid. She was ashen-faced, but her injuries had already been healed and she stood with the support of her benefactors. "I am well, Viscount," she said, her eyes shining as she looked up at her lord. "Maker keep you, I am now and truly well!"

/.\./.\

"That was quite the show."

The Hero of Ferelden sat in a plush velvet chair in the Viscount's study. His long hand stroked the dome of Dog's head, resting drowsily on the elf's knee. He was uneasy. Anders could see it in the churning of his powerful aura. For all that the man had landed a death blow on the Archdemon, he was still troubled facing Hawke.

"What do you mean?" Hawke asked. He looked tired; his inauguration party had gone late into the night and the courtier bearing his day's missives had arrived very early. His dark eyes didn't rise from the papers on his desk as he spoke, his quill never stopped its rapid flicks across the page. There was something strange, something humorous, about seeing the man in his fine court armour, blades jutting above his shoulders, doing paper work.

"I mean that it couldn't have been more perfect." The Warden had been invited to stand on the balcony with the other council members, as one of the Viscount's companions, but he had refused. Apparently he had watched the coronation from elsewhere. "A perfectly timed assassination attempt."

"Aveline has the guard questioning the assassins," Hawke responded.

"I'm sure she does."

"Warden, are you trying to say something to me?" Hawke finally let his quill rest and regarded the other man directly.

"Congratulations." The Warden smiled, but it was blatantly false and showed most of his teeth. "You went from a prisoner to a ruler in less than a month. You have my congratulations." His amber stare found Anders, standing beside Hawke's large, throne-like chair. "What do you think of this, Anders?"

Anders didn't know why people kept asking him that question. He thought as Hawke thought. "This is destiny," he replied. His voice was low and tight from disuse. "And justice. This was meant to be."

"Of course you would say that." For a moment, the Warden sat in contemplative silence, still stroking Dog's head. The beast, too, had an aura, indicating an alertness that betrayed his indolent posture. He was always ready for the Warden's commands. "I am... concerned about you, Anders. Since you carried Hawke out of that University, you've been a changed man."

"Grief and guilt hit him hard," Hawke murmured. "How changed would you be if you had to sacrifice Zevran to save Alistair?"

That hit a sore point. The Warden frowned deeply. "Don't even suggest that. There was no reason to sacrifice Fenris. Anders was acting out of jealousy and blindness, but... He is a Grey Warden. Grey Wardens are bound by duty and familiar with loss. They don't just... shut down like this."

"He ran from the Grey Wardens. Perhaps he was never truly one of yours."

"And Grey Wardens do not _glow_," the Warden insisted, slamming a fist down on the arm of his chair. "He's sick, Hawke! Can't you see it?"

"Grief is a curious process," was Hawke's smooth reply. "Perhaps Justice is the only thing keeping him moving."

"Let him answer for himself!"

The Viscount sighed. "Anders?"

"Thank-you for your concern, Warden," the mage said. "Following Hawke is my only purpose now."

The Warden shuddered and shook his head. "What have you done?" he whispered, staring at the Viscount.

"I didn't ask you here to talk about Anders," Hawke responded, his gentle voice hardening. He shuffled his papers to one side and then rested his hands on the polished wood of his desk, fingertips together. "I wanted to thank you. You performed a great duty, to both myself and to Kirkwall, by escorting me here. I also appreciate the letter you sent to King Alistair on my behalf. Now I know you want to move on. Is there any gift or favour I can bestow?"

"Whatever you've done to Anders, undo it. He's a prat, but he's no man's puppet!"

"I beg your patience, Warden, but I honestly don't know what you're talking about. Anders is going through a difficult time now and I'm simply supporting him. We were always close, and now we're closer as we deal with our grief-"

"Grief? And what of your plans for revenge? Or have you forgotten, Serah Viscount?"

"Of course not." Hawke smirked. "Now that I've been elected, I have far more resources at my disposal. I will ensure that Fenris is avenged. Your assistance is no longer required."

"That's not what you said before," the Warden snapped. "You _begged_ me to accompany you, but all I've done is write a flaming letter, shed dog hair in your house of law, and watch you preen under your admiring crowds!"

"Easy, my friend." Hawke lifted a hand beseechingly. "I had no way of knowing that this would happen. I didn't come here expecting to take this position."

"I doubt that."

"Aveline practically forced it on me."

"_Really._"

"But now that I'm here, I won't let this power go to waste."

"Will you declare war on the Imperium, then? Demand that they surrender Danarius? You know that's impossible. You need a small team to infiltrate-"

"Warden." Hawke spoke softly, dangerously. "I understand your concern, but it is unnecessary."

"My concern is necessary until Fenris is avenged! Both of his lovers have forgotten him!"

"He is not forgotten. I urge you, Warden, board your ship and sail home. You've done all you can here."

The Warden's lip twisted in a sneer of distaste. "I despise this city, its ruler and its stinking, criminal people. I would be on the next boat to anywhere if I had my way, but Fenris was a good friend, a good man. I will haunt you until you do right by him!"

"If that is your wish," Hawke replied mildly, bowing his dark head. "You have five days. Should you want a ship, I will personally charter one for you. My generosity will end on that day, though, and you will find your own way."

"I want none of your favours, Viscount." The Warden stood, jerkily, and Dog followed suit, shaking himself to his wide feet. "I will gather my own allies if you will not. Do _not_ summon me here again, Viscount." He looked to Anders and his tattooed face twitched. There was anger, sadness and fear before he whirled away. "The sight of you and your pet make me sick." He paused in the doorway. "I might recommend a collar," he said to the doorjamb. Then he turned and glared over his shoulder. "If only to let your people know the type of man they elected to rule them."

When the Warden had stalked out, Hawke sighed into the ensuing silence. "People never listen," he murmured. "Things would be so much... cleaner... if they simply obeyed." He reached back to rub his neck. Anders immediately moved forward and lay his hands on the man's strong flesh. He could no longer heal, but he could at least do this. "If they were more like you," Hawke purred, tilting his head back to look up at the mage. "Close the door, Anders."

Without looking away from Hawke's smile, Anders summoned a gust of wind. The door slammed shut, making the art on the shelves and walls rattle.

Hawke laughed. "You are a wonderful creature," he praised. Then he groaned and let his head fall forward on his arms as Anders kneaded the knotted muscles.

The mage knew what Hawke needed. He responded to that need eagerly, sending heat into the muscles under his hands. When Hawke sighed his pleasure, Anders felt it as though it were his own.

They were interrupted by a brisk knock at the door. Hawke made a sound of disgust and straightened. Anders resumed his place. Already, he sensed Enchanter Llewellyn's power and he readied himself in case she should become hostile.

"Enter," Hawke called.

Enchanter Llewellyn didn't quite bow, but she did lower her greying head respectfully when she entered. That would change soon enough, Anders knew. Soon, all would bow before Hawke.

"Enchanter, what a welcome surprise," Hawke said with false cordiality. "Take a seat. How may I serve you?"

The large woman, she probably had the blood of the Anderfels in her veins, settled in the chair that the angry Warden had so recently vacated. "Viscount," she began, "first I would like to congratulate you, yet again."

"Thank-you."

"But I have some concerns."

"Well, I suppose the celebration could only last so long." Hawke chuckled. "Now the work must begin. Please go on."

She looked uncomfortable and her attention rested on Anders. "I have a concern of a somewhat personal nature, Viscount, and I hope you will not take offence. I am... not the only person who has noticed that your companion is a, well, an abomination."

"I suspect that the glowing gives him away, yes."

Llewellyn's answering titter was sickly. "Indeed." She gestured with an ink-stained hand in the vague direction of the rest of the Keep. "The, uh, the rumours are already rampant."

The Champion glanced back at Anders and his smile turned wicked. "How interesting," he murmured. "Please enlighten me. What rumours?"

"Though the majority of the council and the assembly of representatives supports you, there is some dissension. Your rivals have been quick to point out, erm, your eccentricities." Then, in a rush, Llewellyn blurted, "It is rumoured that you have taken an abomination to your bed, Viscount. That you deal with demons." She hurriedly added, "Though everyone is aware of how you fought demons in the past."

"I appreciate you bringing this to my attention," Hawke said. "And I can assure you that the rumours are true."

"Wh-what?"

"Don't worry." Hawke, all confident assurance, placated her with a gentle wave. "Anders is an abomination, this is true, but it is no demon that inhabits his soul. He has, instead, become intimately bound with the spirit of Justice. I'm sure you can sense the difference."

Llewellyn nodded uncertainly. "He is also the cause of Kirkwall's, no, Thedas', current state-"

"Ah, of course," Hawke interrupted, an edge forming in his voice. He sighed long-sufferingly. "I knew it would come to this. I am very, very disappointed in you, enchanter. Any common man might see Anders as a criminal, but I thought you had more sense... Without his actions you would still be confined to a cell."

"He's directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people!" Llewellyn protested. The enchanter's gaze moved rapidly to and away from Anders, as though she expected him to fly into a rage. He stood quietly by, though. Only a threat to Hawke would provoke him.

"So is the forest fire that brings seeds to life. So is the flooding river that carries silt to fertilize the fields." Hawke spoke with a hypnotic rhythm, utterly reasonable and convincing. "Anders regrets that his actions caused as much pain as they did, but they are birth pains. The pains that allow for a new way of life, a new way forward. And he could not have done it without the power and determination that Justice gave him." Without looking back, Hawke lifted his hand to his shoulder. Anders responded by sliding forward and laying his palm on the warm, black metal. It was a position of affection, trust, and protectiveness. "I trust him with my life, Enchanter. I beg you not to fear him."

She stared at the tableau, a turmoil of concern and shame. She was afraid of him, Anders knew, but she didn't want to be. Perhaps she was ashamed by what she had gained from his actions, from the death he caused. Perhaps she was ashamed that she didn't protest his existence more than she had. From what Anders knew, she fought against demonic influence like it was a personal war. If she supported Hawke, then she was, in turn, supporting an abomination. The moral dilemma was probably eating her away.

"I..." She tried to say something, but her voice died.

"Please don't let this disturb you, Enchanter," Hawke continued kindly. "You may send the purveyors of these rumours to me. I will address them personally. I'm well aware that fear and hatred are rampant during these hard times and I feel that we can only deal with it directly, not with more secrets."

"Uh, yes. Yes, Viscount." She looked shaken. Hawke seemed to have that effect on people, with some Maker-given ability to sway them to positions nearly opposite to where they initially stood.

"Thank-you for bringing this to my attention, enchanter. Now, were there any other concerns...?"

"No," she said hurriedly. "That was all." She stood with the aid of her ornate staff and limped to the door, bent under a weight of confusion.

When they were alone again, Hawke chuckled and shook his head, as though at some jest. He rubbed Anders' knuckles, then tugged the mage to come around in front of him. "I've always wanted to do this," he murmured, standing and pushing Anders back onto the Viscount's large, sturdy desk. "I wonder what the rumour-mill would say if they knew what their ruler was about to get up to with an abomination." His roving hands encountered the papers by Anders' hips and he smirked. "And on their precious little laws, no less."

/.\./.\

Hawke received word that a Tevinter ship had pulled into the harbour some days later, while he broke his fast with Aveline and the other councillors. The messenger carried a flowery-worded letter requesting an audience. The council members were curious and concerned, but the Viscount's only response was a satisfied, "Excellent." Anders could detect the surge of excitement within the man.

The Viscount received the Imperium emissaries in his largest and most grandiose audience chamber. As always, courtiers and representatives lined the walls, their jewel-like colours standing out sharply against the red and black banners hung for Hawke's ascension. These aristocratic men and women were here to keep an eye on what their ruler was doing and to take every opportunity to gain his favour and undermine each other. Anders knew that this suited Hawke very well; he wanted the spectators. The Viscount lounged on his throne, lengths of precious silks and supple leathers draped over his ornate armour, and waited for the show to begin. Anders stood at his side, adorned in golden chains, scarlet feathers and rich clothing, as solid as a statue and ethereal as a dream.

Early in the afternoon, with clear light slanting in through the high windows, a peacock-coloured herald announced from the door, "Ambassador Claudia, my Lord Viscount, from the Tevinter Imperium."

Hawke waved a hand and gave no indication that he noticed the shocked hush that fell over the room. He had sworn his councillors to silence, giving his courtiers no warning of what was to come.

The small, pale blonde woman stepped forward with a rustle of her fine robes. Following her was a double line of similarly robed men and women, all reeking of magic, and a troupe of bare chested and muscular slaves bearing various items. A hooded figure stalked behind them.

"Greetings from the Archon," Claudia began when she reached the dais. She bowed deeply. When she straightened, her sharp blue gaze swept over Hawke and his guardian. She stared at Anders with an expression of surprise and speculation.

"I bid you welcome, ambassador," Hawke said, pulling her attention back.

"Hail to the new ruler of Kirkwall. We bring gifts and an offer of alliance." At Hawke's nod, she continued. "A chest of gold, a mated pair of war-drakes, seven bales of moon satin, the lyrium-threaded blades of the Grey Wolf, and a Sword of Mercy." The chest, the twin blades, each sizzling with power, and the sword were uncovered and brought forward by their bearers and lain at the Viscount's feet. The drakes and the satin were presumably waiting in the courtyard.

Again, murmurs raced around the room. The Tevinter Imperium wasn't especially well known for its generosity, apart from generous use of its armies and blood mages. Here was the Archon's ambassador, though, lavishing rich gifts on the young, inexperienced ruler of a small city-state.

"We regret that the Imperium and Kirkwall share a bloody history," Claudia finished. "Once, Kirkwall was like our beloved child. We wish to build a future to once again share that love."

The courtiers muttered their disapproval at Claudia's condescension. Hawke, though, merely smiled as a cat smiles at a sparrow.

"We thank you, ambassador. Let it be known that the Tevinter Imperium is a friend to Kirkwall." Hawke's dark eye travelled over his courtiers, searching for dissent. There was none, though the glares and whispers were plentiful. "You will have chambers within the Keep proper for you and your party to retire while we discuss the terms of our alliance."

"We will share all we have, Viscount." Claudia was practically scraping before Hawke. "May I also present our last gift, a warrior imbued with the powers of raw lyrium itself."

Hawke laughed. "A gift, ambassador?" He shook his head. "I think not. You may, however, return my property to me." He lifted a gauntleted hand. "Come here and take your place, Fenris."

The figure at the end of the line pushed back his hood, revealing pointed ears, soft white hair and a strong, dark face, lip lifted in a cold sneer. Around his neck wound a silver filigree collar, elaborate enough that the casual observer wouldn't notice the immense magical control it exerted on its wearer. Without a sound, the elf padded forward between the lines of mages, some of whom flinched away at his passage. His green eyes drifted about, searching, hunting. He paused only briefly, to claim the Sword of Mercy, before coming to rest in the empty place at Hawke's other flank.

Deep, deep within Anders' breast, there was a faint stir, but it was nameless, fathomless. The mage ignored it. He dreamed.

"Now we're ready," Hawke murmured to his guardians. Louder, he told Claudia, "I want you to join us for dinner tonight, ambassador."

"I am your humble servant."

The Viscount chuckled again. It grew into a delighted laugh that echoed against the ceiling of the audience chamber above the heads of his startled courtiers.

Anders was aware of Aveline, standing just inside the main door, her emotions a mess of confusion and unease. He was also aware of the Warden, lurking on one of the upper galleries running the length of the room, surrounded in a growing cloud of deadly rage.

/.\./.\

When the audience was over, Hawke wasted no time in returning to his study. He hid his urgency well, with a long, measured stride; even as he avoided his councillors and refused to speak with the anxious courtiers littering the halls.

"Prepare for a fight," Hawke commanded as they entered the chamber. "This is our last great challenge." He sat behind his great mahogany desk and waited.

Silent and vigilant, his guardians obeyed. Anders cast protective auras on both warriors. Fenris dropped the cloak in which he'd hidden, to pool like black oil at his bare feet. Beneath it, he wore new armour in the colours of House Amell, designed to suit Hawke's entourage. More of his dusky skin showed through gaps in the snug black and red grafted hide, displaying the lyrium tattoos on his arms, legs and flanks. These tattoos briefly glowed as he summoned the lyrium's strength.

Hawke made a noise of admiration. He reached out to caress the air by Fenris' hip. "I have missed you," he breathed. When there was no response, he crooked a smile and said, "Speak freely."

Fenris' face twisted. "I wish Danarius had killed me," he hissed. "So I would not see you become this _thing_!"

Hawke's response was interrupted by a low growl that resolved itself into a large, snarling mabari crashing through the study door. The Warden followed close behind. The elf was livid, the colour under his blue tattoos nearly matching his hair.

"I know what you are!" he accused. "I know what you've done!"

Fenris shouted, "Run!"

"Be silent," Hawke snapped and Fenris became immediately impassive.

The Warden watched this exchange in rising horror. He gestured sharply toward Fenris and Anders. "Look at them! You've destroyed them! You... you carry some Tevinter disease, some curse. It's turned you into a monster!"

Hawke re-settled himself behind his desk, unperturbed. "I offered to send you home," he said calmly. To Anders, he added, "Close the door."

"And they put you into power!" the Warden raved, pointing erratically toward the audience chamber. "They put a flaming crown on your head and all you're going to do is turn this into another province of the Imperium!"

"Oh, no," Hawke said. He leaned forward, his eyes alight. "I will rule an empire greater even than the Imperium. Danarius thought he was creating an instrument for his own use, but in the end I will twist him to my designs. The old fool will be as much a thrall as any other man and woman."

"No," the Warden choked over his anger. "You're sick. You're demented. Whatever Danarius did to you... It's wrong. Even the idiots in this city will see it. And I will see to it that no other country sides with you, no matter how you've bent the Imperium to your will." He bared his teeth, as though mimicking the mabari at his side. "You've made an enemy in me."

"A pity." Hawke shook his head sadly, tsking. "I did so appreciate your help in wooing Ferelden to my side. I would have preferred to honour you on an honest battlefield. You're rather ahead of schedule, though. I'm afraid I'll have to be rid of you early." He scratched his beard and frowned. "I suppose I can still take advantage of it, though, before they realize you're dead. We should be able to get a force together. Then, perhaps, a solid strike against Amaranthine to cripple trade..." He trailed off into thought, his attention wandering from the aghast Hero of Ferelden.

"How can you just stand there?" The Warden addressed Fenris and Anders, his hands extended in a plea.

Neither of them responded, beyond carefully watching for any indication of attack. For his part, Anders rested easily in the conviction that Hawke was right and true, the paragon of love. Hawke would take away the pain and injustice in the world. Fenris, the mage sensed on the periphery of awareness, was unhappy, but so thickly wrapped in enchantments that his will had been completely sapped.

This wasn't the first time that Anders had seen that mix of fear, desperation and indecision on the Warden's face. The last time, Hawke had lain in the mage's arms and the focus of the Warden's despair was Fenris and the magister Danarius. Now, though, the players were the same, but the roles had changed.

The Warden backed away toward the door, one hand extended to twist the knob and the other pulling his sword from its sheath. "You'll fail," he spat defiantly. "You will fail!"

"Oh, I think not." When the door swung wide, Hawke lunged to his feet and shouted, "Help! Guard! The Fereldan is attacking me!"

The Warden seemed to realize then that his time was at an end, that escape was impossible with Hawke before him and a Keep of guard at his back. His eyes closed briefly, perhaps in a prayer, perhaps in remembrance of the people he had loved. Then his amber gaze flared and he attacked.

Dog launched himself at Hawke first. Anders tried to catch him in a crushing prison, but the beast was more resistant than he had realized. Dog shook off the spell, landed on the desk and buried his teeth in Hawke's arm, tearing through the metal like it was made of paper.

Anders felt the bite as though his own arm was caught in those jaws. He screamed. Power tore through him and erupted in a spirit bolt that flung Dog off of the desk to crash into the potted ferns in the corner of the room.

In his distraction, the mage didn't notice that the Warden had gotten behind him. The elf's dagger struck with unerring accuracy between Anders' ribs, puncturing several important bits of flesh. Blood and blue light dripped from both the wound and Anders' mouth as he collapsed to his knees.

The Warden didn't have the opportunity to finish the job, though, before Fenris' long legs appeared in Anders' view. The warrior slammed the other elf away with a sweeping horizontal blow that shattered the Warden's sword, hastily raised in defence. The Warden stumbled backwards and tripped over the chair, but managed to roll aside to avoid a downward slash.

"Fenris," he gasped. "Please! Please don't do this!"

Fenris answered with a pulse of energy that stunned the Warden, followed by a sword blow that dug deeply into the pale elf's thigh. The Warden screamed.

Dog's snarl joined his master's cry. The beast had finally regained his feet, but he was weaker, less steady. Anders gathered himself where he knelt by Hawke's desk and threw a fireball. It hit the mabari just as Dog leapt at Fenris' back. Dog yelped and flailed into more furniture, leaving behind a smear of soot and blood on the carpet. Indomitable, unstoppable, Dog stirred and tried to stand once more.

Anders wouldn't let the animal come back to attack again. Without style, without mercy, he summoned lightning to tear the beast apart, turning him into so much shredded meat and fur.

"Maker," the Warden croaked. There were tears in his eyes, mingling with the blood streaming from his nose. He had managed to get onto his good leg, one hand clutching the overturned chair and the other pointing his dagger at Fenris, attempting in vain to keep the warrior at bay. "You won't... there will be justice."

Hawke unstealthed behind him and embraced the injured elf like another lover. "Yes, there will," he murmured and slid one of his glimmering Tevinter blades across the Warden's white throat. The Viscount closed his eyes and rested his cheek against the Warden's red hair as the Hero of Ferelden's life flowed out.

He dropped the corpse, then, and heaved a deep breath. His mangled arm dropped to his side, blood dripping from the tips of his fingers, both his own and the Warden's. When he looked up, he found Aveline, blanched under her freckles, and two stricken guards in the doorway.

"He attacked me," he groaned. "Maker help us all. Ferelden just declared war."


	19. Chapter 19

In which Hawke Sets Things in Motion.

**Freudian Slip of the Day:**  
I keep typing "bedchamber" as "badchamber"... Your author has issues _

**Playlist Recommendations:**  
Three Doors Down – Kryptonite  
Warmen – Salieri Strikes Back  
NIN – Right Where it Belongs, Capital G  
Depeche Mode – Dirt

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Nineteen**

Immediately following the battle with the Warden, Hawke had Anders taken to his personal apartment to be cared for by the Keep's doctor. "Magical healing will be ineffective," he warned the woman hovering over the glowing abomination.

"Cat-gut stitches and leeches," she replied. "Yes, ser."

Her humour, such as it was, was not appreciated by the Viscount. Hawke waved away the mage tending his own wounds, the motion a perfect picture of carefully controlled violence. He stood and approached the stretcher bearing his abomination. Fenris followed; his body responded to Hawke's anger with the rapid thud of his heart, the rush of blood in his arms and legs.

Hawke leaned over Anders' torso and said, very quietly, to the woman on the other side, "Your life depends on his survival."

_Hawke's life depends on his survival_. The knowledge travelled through the connection between Hawke and Fenris like a faint echo from another room.

"Yes, ser," the woman replied faintly, all arrogance gone. She stepped hurriedly back and snapped her fingers at the men bearing Anders' meagre weight.

The mage lay on his stomach, his head to the side, his eyes open and unseeing. His lips were blue and his skin white. He looked like a ghost. The only indication of life was that unwavering glow.

"He didn't used to hold onto vengeance like this," Aveline remarked. "If he released it, a simple spell would do. He'd heal it himself!" Her voice was sharp with worry, perhaps even fear. She stood as far from Hawke as she could manage without getting in the way of the guards she had ordered to clean up the bodies of the Warden and Dog.

"There was an event in Tevinter," Hawke explained. He returned to his chair, his posture weary, and allowed the young male mage to continue working. "It sent Anders deeper into the Fade. Deep enough that Justice was able to hold him down. Thank you, that'll be all for now. But stay close." That last he directed at the mage, who had finished tying a completely unnecessary bandage around his Viscount's arm. To Aveline, he added, "We're working on it."

Hawke lied fluidly, confidently, with just enough truth that Aveline couldn't immediately deny him. She accepted his reasons with the same desperation with which a man dying of thirst would accept a cup of water. She wanted to believe him.

"Oh, Maker keep you, I just heard." An older, plumper mage (_Enchanter Llewellyn_, came the knowledge from Hawke.) puffed into the doorway, her face flushed and shiny. "I was in discussions with the artificers. Can I help?" She approached, one hand extended and the other clutching her three-headed staff.

Fenris responded to Hawke's residual annoyance and Llewellyn's power by pulling his sword and leaping forward.

"Stop," Hawke commanded, a moment before the edge of the ruddy Sword of Mercy contacted Llewellyn's neck. Fenris smoothly wound the blade in two quick arcs around the shocked enchanter's head, leaving her unharmed. "It's all right, Fenris," the Viscount continued. "She's an ally."

The elf replaced his sword at his back and returned to Hawke's side.

"He's... not fond of mages," Hawke explained, "and you're unfamiliar. My apologies, Enchanter. And no, I don't require your assistance at this moment, but you have my thanks for the offer and for your concern."

Enchanter Llewellyn blinked rapidly. It seemed to be sinking in just how close she had come to death. She looked to Aveline, but the Guard Captain was just as speechless. Then she put a hand to her heaving chest, stumbled to the plush red chair and sank into it. A heartbeat later, she shrieked and leapt back up. The back of her mint-green and lilac robe was soaked in the Warden's blood.

"Call the other council members," the Viscount added before either the enchanter or Aveline could interrupt with any further questions. "We must act on this immediately." He slowly got to his feet. "Ensure that no word of this gets out, Aveline. This is a matter of gravest urgency and secrecy."

She nodded, bowed with a fist to her shoulder, and strode stiffly out.

"Llewellyn," Hawke continued with false warmth to assuage the frightened enchanter. He came close and lay a friendly hand on her arm. "Do you need to take a moment?"

"No. No, I'm fine. I've seen blood before. Just not... on the seat of my robes." She tidied her grey-streaked hair, took a few steadying breaths, and straightened her shoulders. "Would it be all right if I got a new set, Viscount?"

Fenris could hear the machinations of Hawke's mind. The rogue knew that Llewellyn was more malleable when unsettled and blood unsettled her. He shook his head sadly. "I need you with me, Llewellyn. Please walk with me. Without Anders, I'm at a loss."

"But you have, uh..." She trailed off and glanced at the dark elf lurking at Hawke's shoulder.

"As fierce as Fenris may be, he is no councillor." Hawke smiled encouragingly. "Please. I'll get my own Orana to clean your robes and the chair. After three years of service to the Champion of Kirkwall, she learned how to defeat bloodstains as soundly as I defeated demons."

The enchanter relaxed slightly at the joke and even managed a tiny grin. "As you like it," she finally agreed.

The immediate meeting of his councillors was absolutely necessary for Hawke. Explicitly, this was to assure them that he would not stand for the insult that Ferelden had given them. Implicitly, he was going to take advantage of the Warden's brash attack to push his own agenda.

Hawke walked slowly through the Keep with Llewellyn on one side and the nervous young healer on the other. Fenris silently followed. Rumour-mongering courtiers still filled the halls, talking about the recent audience with the Tevinters and how this would impact their own petty lives and ambitions. They eyed the Viscount and his entourage with poorly-hidden curiosity, especially when they caught sight of Llewellyn's robe. Some made attempts at intercepting their new lord, but Hawke's expression quickly sent them scurrying away. He was no Viscount Dumar, hiding in his office to avoid the pleas and complaints of his people. He was Hawke—_the_ Hawke—and he would not be waylaid.

In the council chamber, Hawke had Fenris prowl around, closing the long drapes and ensuring that no

one was hiding in the window casements or behind the potted plants. Hawke and Llewellyn settled in their chairs, Llewellyn with an uncomfortable wince for her bloodstained robe. When refreshments came for the impromptu meeting, Fenris examined those as well. Hawke's uneasiness with Anders' absence manifested as greater vigilance on Fenris' part.

The arrival of the other councillors was heralded by the quick step of an armoured boot. A templar strode in, his expression hot with anger. "My Lord Viscount," he said and offered a tense, abbreviated salute. "Two of my lieutenants would like to know why their captain was dragged off by the Guard in the middle of his rounds."

"They'll have to wait for an answer." Hawke gestured at the seat by Llewellyn. "Sit down, Cullen." When the templar glared from the door, Hawke added, "Sit down before I have Fenris make you sit down."

Fenris shifted his weight and smirked.

Cullen apparently remembered the unnerving ferocity and abilities of the Tevinter warrior, because he made no further comment and took his seat next to the Enchanter.

Seneschal Bran was next. He must have heard something about the fight, because he didn't object to the meeting. With quiet grace, he took his seat at Hawke's right hand, with barely a glance toward Fenris or the bandages on Hawke's arm.

Aveline returned a moment later. She watched her friend and leader warily as she took her place, as though she didn't quite believe what she had seen.

Once they were all assembled, Hawke had his borrowed healer check his arm again. Even after only being around the Viscount for a few hours, Fenris knew how much he had changed. Once a man with a certain flair for the dramatic, this new Hawke had a keen, unearthly sense of the power of imagery, timing and coercion. Every wince was calculated, every crease of his grim, handsome face was intended to communicate the immensity of the situation, the immediacy, the danger. He had not even spoken, and he had already begun to control his council members.

The healer finally departed. Hawke leaned back in his leather-padded chair and looked like nothing so much as a predator observing its prey from some sun-bathed rock.

"Ferelden has declared war," he said without preamble. "We will answer in kind."

Aveline, predictably, immediately resisted. "Hawke, you were attacked by one man. How can you say he was acting on behalf of king and country? Perhaps... perhaps he held some personal grudge from your travels?" Her gaze found Fenris, standing quietly dangerous behind his master.

Fenris could see her worry, the questions burning away at her. The elf wondered: Had the Warden spoken with her? Would she figure it out? Would he have to kill her, too?

She did not mention the elf or Tevinter, though, which saved her life. Instead, as Hawke shook his head, she made only feeble protests. "They are our countrymen, Hawke."

"Are they?" he asked gently, soothingly. "They abandoned us at the first sign of danger. You remember the Blight... They were so caught up in figuring out who would be king that they left Lothering to be destroyed. They're hungry for power; it's little wonder that they sent an assassin. I would bet my last sovereign that they wanted to keep Kirkwall headless, so they could come and take her at their leisure."

Aveline's expressive mouth turned down. "That's not true," she murmured, clearly troubled. "King Alistair would never sanction—"

"No? He used the Blight to claim the throne for himself. He locked away his brother's wife, the rightful queen. You cannot trust them, Aveline. They'll turn on you." The Viscount touched the bandages covering his arm. "They take after their dogs. I consider myself lucky that I can call myself a man of Kirkwall. Don't you remember your childhood? How you were ridiculed for your ginger hair and freckles alone? Only in Kirkwall are we free from that simpleminded discrimination." He looked around the table, meeting the eyes of every man and woman. "The Free Marches are truly free. Ferelden wants to take that away."

The Viscount's charm oozed like poison from his lips. One by one, Hawk found their weaknesses and exploited them. Bran's was glory, Cullen's was a memory of the Ferelden refugee tide washing Kirkwall out from under him, Llewellyn's was a hidden jealousy of the Ferelden Circles, so liberated while those in the Free Marches were cruelly confined. One by one, they conceded defeat and agreed in favour of war. They would meet violence with violence.

Hawke urged a fast response, a crippling blow at Amaranthine to give Kirkwall the advantage in later soirees.

"And who will fight. Who will lead?" Cullen demanded. "Kirkwall has no standing army, other than the Guard and the Templars, but they have other duties."

"No standing army?" Hawke repeated, subtly mocking. "You have only to walk about at night to find them."

"You can't be saying—"

"I _am_ saying." Hawke quieted Aveline with a flat stare. "An army seethes in the warrens of Kirkwall. Men and women who have fought to survive their entire lives. We recruit them, we outfit them, and we unleash them on the cities of Ferelden. Replace their gang leaders with our commanders and they won't know the difference."

"But that's... that's wrong!"

"Is it so wrong? They want to kill. They're good at it. Why try to stop them when we can use them? I can guarantee your streets will be safer, dear Aveline."

"And if they won't go?" Bran asked. "If they set foot on shore and try to run away?"

"The brave and loyal will be richly rewarded. And those who care not for riches, well... Their generals will be right behind them." Hawke purred, "They will not dare to flee."

"What generals?" Cullen asked. "We don't have any generals."

"You do now," Hawke assured him.

At the urging of the will that had replaced his own, Fenris stepped forward into the light, his bare, lyrium-marked arms crossed over his silver breastplate, the Sword of Mercy looming over his spiked shoulder.

"Fenris and Anders will lead them," Hawke continued. "When I am not there to lead myself, that is. I don't intend to send my armies where I will not go."

Again, it was Aveline who protested most fiercely. "You've been Viscount for a week! You can't run off to war now!" She stood, palms splayed on the table. "You swore that you would be responsible for Kirkwall, but you're acting like this is just another adventure."

Hawke's anger rose, making Fenris tense and mentally prepare to murder another person he had considered friend.

"Right now, Kirkwall needs protection. I will not protect her by hiding behind her walls."

"The people need a strong leader," Cullen interjected. "If they see that the Viscount isn't just another man shuffling papers and making compromises, it'll improve moral."

"This may help foreign policy, as well," Bran added.

"By alienating Ferelden's allies?" Aveline demanded.

"By showing Ferelden's true colours," Bran replied, lifting his lip. "Ever since the Fifth Blight, Ferelden and her king have carried on like they saved the world, like everyone else on Thedas owed them. But where's the evidence? A handful of darkspawn and a rotting dragon? Every country has those." He sniffed. "It's about time someone took them to task. That someone should be Kirkwall. We demonstrate our strength and no one will try to take advantage of Kirkwall again."

"Well spoken, Seneschal," Hawke praised warmly. "You were wasted on Dumar."

Bran flushed slightly. "Thank-you, Viscount." Apparently, he no longer thought of Hawke as something to scrape off the bottom of his boot.

"What of the mages?" Llewellyn asked.

"What of them?"

"How will war impact them?"

Hawke stroked his beard and smirked. "The mages of Kirkwall, enchanter, are also the defenders of Kirkwall. Gone are the days when a mage looks to her Circle first and her country second. I will not have that division. I will not have the mistrust. Your mages will fight at the side of our warriors."

The enchanter couldn't seem to choose an emotion between excitement and confusion. "Like the Imperium," she said. "They'll need training. For battle, that is."

"Exactly like the Imperium," Hawke agreed. "It's so good that they count themselves our allies, yes? I will have the ambassador and her people work with you. You may train your mages as you see fit."

"I must object!" Cullen burst. "Mages are dangerous as it is! Now you want to train them for war? En mass?"

"Desperate is the mage who calls for help in the Fade and is taken by a demon," Hawke explained levelly. "The untrained, the persecuted and the afraid. Learning from the Imperium is the only way to prevent accidental possession. Those who continue to have truck with demons will be hunted and executed, but with adequate training this should no longer be a problem. If you allow the mages equality, what reason will they have to turn to that last resort?"

"The Tevinters are renowned for their blood magic," Cullen persisted. "We'll have a legion of blood mages at our backs. I don't think they will be obedient to your will for long, Viscount. Mages aren't known for discretion in their search for power."

"Mages are humans, too," Llewellyn snapped. "Mundanes climb over their dead rivals in their search for power and authority more than mages do."

"Yes, but where a mundane will poison his rival's cup, a mage will demolish the great hall and everyone in it!" The templar scowled at the enchanter. "They have no consideration for the value of life."

"They have a _greater_ consideration!"

"Councillors," Hawke interrupted softly, in a tone normally reserved for bickering children. "I've made my decision."

The council members fell silent and stared at their leader. He looked on them kindly, fatherly.

"Here are my edicts," he continued when the others had settled back. "Aveline and Cullen, you are responsible for gathering an army. We need at least five legions. Five hundred men. Find the leaders of the Coterie, subdue them, either kill them or make them ours. They'll lead you to other gangs and other soldiers. For now, they will be the officers of their own men, but we'll break them up and turn them into an army as soon as we can."

"You're joking," Aveline choked. Hawke may as well have asked her to gather raw sewage in her helmet.

"Clean streets," Hawke reminded her. "Make those men sweat in the training fields and they won't be murdering the children of Lowtown." He nodded at Cullen and Llewellyn. "There's space in the Gallows for an army. Work with Bran and get the contractors to build barracks and the required facilities."

"Viscount," Cullen nodded. "If there's one thing templars can do, it's teaching discipline. Even if the Guard are lacking."

Hawke had only to think it and Fenris' sword stretched like a bolt of light across the table, aimed at Cullen's nose. The Knight-Captain blinked rapidly at the impassive elf, but did not move.

"Petty, childish insults do not belong at this table, Knight-Captain. There is no place here for the men who speak them." Hawke stared with deadly earnestness at Cullen, then at the others. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, Viscount," murmured all but Aveline, whose green eyes were wide and afraid.

Fenris stepped back and replaced his weapon at his back. "Apologize," Hawke ordered.

"I... I do apologize, Guard Captain," Cullen said slowly, appearing to have difficulty with the words. "You have created a force of guardians that Kirkwall has never seen before. I hope I did not cause, uh, offence."

"Thank-you, Knight-Captain." Aveline's stare never left Hawke as she spoke. "No offence taken."

"Good." The Viscount rubbed his beard and surveyed his councillors. "You have three weeks to build your army, captains, but you'll have the full support of administration to do so. Seneschal, you will see to it."

"Yes, Viscount."

"Enchanter, after I meet with the ambassador, I'll send her to you. Feel free to use her to your advantage." He smirked, as though sharing a secret with the mage. "The Maker knows that you've been used hard enough in the past. You have my blessing to take your turn, so long as your efforts are directed at the protection of Kirkwall and her people."

"Of course, Viscount. Thank-you for this opportunity." The woman's unease was fading and excitement had fully taken its place. She was eager to prove herself and her people.

"Lastly, we must address the other emissaries." A shadow darkened the Viscount's face below his brows as he tilted his head in thought. "We'll confine them for now, until our relationship with Ferelden has been revealed. Keep them in their apartments, under guard. They'll be comfortable, but we can't allow them to communicate with their leaders. Only after the attack will we begin a dialogue with the other nations."

"And the Fereldans?" Bran asked.

Hawke stroked his beard. "It would be simplest just to get rid of them—"

"Hawke, _please_," Aveline whispered desperately.

"But I'd rather give them a chance to choose their loyalties." He spread his hands. "They may decide, as we have, that Ferelden is a nation of traitors. If they do, we'll welcome them."

This decision was met with quiet nods. Fenris observed that the council members did not know how to deal with the man they had put in power. The ebb and flow of his favour, alternating with violence and ridicule, kept them off-guard and clutching for equilibrium. In mere days, Hawke had gained sound control over them all.

"And, to ensure that the will of the people follows the will of their leaders, we must proliferate anti-Ferelden sentiments. We must re-create the Kirkwall identity. Times have been difficult, after all. We all need... affirmation." He turned to Bran. "Seneschal, I leave this to you. I want ceremonies. Citizen ceremonies. The people of Kirkwall will be the _people_ of Kirkwall; the protectors, warriors, supporters, heroes. I want no more divisions. There will be no more refugees. Those who seek shelter in Kirkwall will be her people and will shelter others."

"Yes, Viscount!" Bran's face was bright. "I already have some ideas. Knight-Captain, would this be sanctioned by the templars?"

Cullen's gaze went to Hawke and Fenris before returning to Bran. "I, yes, I think we could come up with something. Something official."

Hawke smiled.

/.\./.\

The Viscount had only one more task ahead of him before he could rest. Soon, all would be in place, all would be in motion.

Evening arrived and the dinner hour passed before Hawke dismissed his councillors. The Viscount and his lone guardian stalked through the darkened halls, now occupied only by servants and whispering shadows. Hawke was pleased, very pleased. His plans were clipping along at great speed, perhaps faster than he had originally intended, but smoothly, nonetheless. The best part was that he now had his favourite Tevinter in his hands. Fenris could feel it, the man's desire, like a slime on his skin, but there was nothing he could do.

"I've been looking forward to this," the Viscount said as they entered his personal apartment. He propped his hip against the back of the couch in the main room; a sitting room much like his old mansion, but the carpets weren't so clean and there was no simpleton enchanter playing with salamanders in the corner. He folded his arms and stared. Fenris stood in the middle of the luxurious chamber, hands hanging empty at his sides, and waited. Hawke smirked. "Speak freely, Fenris."

The grip on the elf's mind relaxed, allowing him to feel a rush of revulsion. Fenris said flatly, "I would rather an eternity with Danarius than a minute with you."

Hawke shivered dramatically. "I love it," he sighed. He straightened, approached and circled his elven warrior. "You hate me."

Fenris' skin crawled. He wanted to turn his head and watch Hawke's prowling figure, but he was held immobile. He felt like a child, hiding in a cupboard and knowing that a monster was about to open the door. How much of that fear was legitimately his and how much was imposed on him by Hawke, he did not know.

"You think I'm some _thing_," Hawke continued, coming to rest before the elf. Light from the fireplace behind Fenris' shoulder flickered in the Viscount's dark eyes. "You think I'm possessed." He leaned forward until they nearly touched, cheek-to-cheek. "I have a secret," he whispered, warm air brushing Fenris' ear. "I'm not."

"Lies," Fenris croaked, trying to summon a sneer.

"Danarius tried," Hawke continued, backing away and speaking cheerfully. "I'm sure he told you all about it. He was so proud..." He chuckled and shook his head. "That deluded old fool. He held the Eluvian before me, forced me to look into it." His grin was wicked. "I looked into the abyss and the abyss _cringed_. That black city will be mine..."

"Do you know what you're saying?" Fenris asked. "You aren't _Hawke_ any more."

"I am," Hawke replied. He shrugged carelessly. "The Eluvian freed me from myself. Danarius tried to create a slave, but I was too strong. Instead, he gave me power. Perfect power." He crooked a finger. "Come here. I want to show you what else he gave me."

It seemed that Hawke's greatest wish was the opportunity to gloat. He wanted an audience, especially one as helplessly angry as Fenris.

One of the doors off of the main room was outlined with faint blue light. It didn't take much thought to know what lay beyond. Hawke paused in front of it, turning and leaning back. "Business calls," he said thoughtfully. "But the Tevinters can wait a while longer while we get reacquainted. The sooner they learn their place, the better, wouldn't you agree?"

Fenris scowled.

Hawke added, "You agree, Fenris."

The elf could not resist the intrusion of Hawke's will upon his own. He nodded.

Hawke smirked, opened the door, and backed into a windowless room. This one was rendered small by the heavy, canopied bed in its centre. There were a handful of chests, wardrobes and armour stands placed against the walls, but they were of only brief notice. Most of Fenris' attention was drawn to the figure lying prone in the middle of the scarlet bed covers.

Anders lay on his stomach, his torso bare, his ugly wound carefully tended to with an injury kit. His eyes were open, without iris or pupil, but he made no indication that he noticed the other two men enter. He looked drugged, only half-aware.

"A regretful side-effect," Hawke explained with little in the way of regret. His dark, hooded gaze encouraged Fenris to approach the bed, to scrutinize the wasted, spirit-eaten man. "I know what happened between you two. Don't you want to... touch him?"

Fenris wanted no such thing, not with Hawke watching him like a hungry wolf, but it didn't matter. He padded to the bed, removed his sword and carefully sat next to the prone form. Gently, he stroked the back of two gauntleted fingers over Anders' brow and cheek, pushing aside stray bits of the fine blond hair. The mage's skin was nearly transparent, barely able to confine the blue spirit to which he played host. His face was thin and sickly. Fenris had noticed before, from the first moment he had strode toward Hawke on his dais, but he hadn't realized at that distance just how profound the change had been.

"Speak freely," Hawke commanded. The Viscount was already by one of his wardrobes, stripping and replacing his armour with something more suitable for dinner with the Tevinter emissaries.

"You're killing him," Fenris said, low voiced. He brushed his knuckle over the bumps and hollows of Anders' ribs and spine. Gone was the irritating, arrogant, charming and affectionate bundle of energy that the mage had been. For all Fenris knew, that man would never return.

"Hardly. Anders, tell Fenris how you feel."

The mage gasped, drawing in a long, hard breath, and blinked rapidly. For a heartbeat, his expression showed only pain, confusion and fear. Then it smoothed away. He regarded Fenris over his shoulder and smiled slightly. "Fenris," he murmured hoarsely. "You're here." He started to push himself up and nearly fell over.

"Lie still," Fenris commanded, though he refrained from holding the mage down. He didn't want to touch the other man, he was afraid of breaking the fragile skin and letting all of that light spill out.

Anders insisted, though. The abomination made it to his knees and reached for the elf, laying a palm on Fenris' cheek. His touch burned. "I thought I'd killed you, too."

_You did worse than kill me,_ Fenris thought, but refused to say it. Hawke had given him permission to speak, but he wouldn't punish the mage any more than he already had been. "You sound like a Tranquil," he said instead. "And you're dying."

"I'm not Tranquil. Look." Tiny purple sparks danced between his fingers. "Do you remember when we-"

"Stop that." Fenris trapped the sparking hand between his own and pressed it down into Anders' lap. The injured mage had no energy to spare. "Hawke has done something to you!" he hissed.

"Like what?" Hawke interrupted. "He gave himself to me of his own will. Don't you see how happy he is? He dreams all the time now, you know, while Justice does all the heavy-lifting. He's brought the Fade with him, into this world, and he dreams of me. And now of you." The Viscount finished fastening the laces on the deep vee of his shirt and considered himself in his full-length mirror. He leaned forward and tidied his black hair. When he had finished, he turned to the elf and spread his arms to either side. "How do I look?"

Fenris scowled at the tall boots, the snug trousers, the tooled vest and the billowing ruby sleeves. "Like a monster," he replied.

Hawke laughed. "Oh, I do hope you say those things when I take you." He strode near and cupped Fenris' narrow chin in his strong fingers, forcing the elf to meet his gaze. "Anders is just too... willing. Too eager. I'm going to _make_ you want me." His kiss was hard, unforgiving. When Fenris didn't respond, the Viscount drew the elf's bottom lip into his mouth and nipped at it. It hurt, but Fenris only winced because Hawke wanted him to.

"You can't do anything worse than Danarius," Fenris said when he was able.

"Mmm," Hawke murmured against the corner of the elf's jaw. His beard scratched Fenris' throat, distressingly pleasant. "I _am_ worse than Danarius. I'll figure something out. Maker, you're beautiful." His hand slid into the white hair at the back of Fenris' head and pulled hard, giving him easier access to the elf's neck and the warm metal filigree of his collar. His other hand wandered up Fenris' thigh, fingers intruding into the holes that Danarius had found so aesthetically pleasing, savouring the dark, tattooed skin."They told me it would take weeks for your... improvements, but it feels like it's been years. There are so many things I want to _do_ to you now."

The weight of the man's insistence nearly made Fenris topple against Anders. The mage, from what he saw from the corner of a slitted green eye, bore a small smile and would probably enjoy it.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Hawke said, following Fenris' glance. "I've always wanted this, you know. I never wanted to have to choose between you. But now I can have you both."

This brought up painful memories of a time, an eternity ago, when Fenris and Anders had talked about their future after Hawke's rescue, about a relationship between the three of them. This reality was like a cruelly misshapen reflection of that dream.

"And what a dream," Hawke whispered. He seemed to enjoy his ability to read Fenris' mind a little too much. "I'd like to make it come true." He reached for Anders.

Fenris intercepted the hand and lay it on his own hip. He swallowed with difficulty. "Claudia is waiting for you," he reminded, trying not to make it too obvious that he wanted to protect the abomination.

"Yes she is." Hawke either didn't notice Fenris' intention or was willing to let the elf think he was getting away with distracting the man. The Viscount shoved three fingers under the spirit hide covering Fenris' hip and pressed the edge of his thumb into the soft hollow at the joining of leg and torso. He seemed fascinated with the elf's earlobe and his moist breath tickled the sensitive flesh when he spoke. "She had you all to herself on that ship, though. Now it's my turn."

Fenris' stomach churned. "Only in dreams," he husked. "After I killed the first, Danarius wouldn't let the others touch me."

"That's my Fenris," Hawke gloated. "Danarius must be running out of apprentices by now." His grip tightened. "And the magister himself?"

Fenris used his own shame and humiliation like a weapon, the only weapon he had, trying to incite anger in the other man. "He made me beg. He spread me out and demonstrated his techniques_._ He taught a _lecture series _at that University! On creating lyrium ghost warriors and their _other uses_."

Unfortunately, Hawke seemed to find Fenris' scathing response more humorous than distressing. He grinned, white teeth flashing through his beard. "I wish I'd known," he said. "I could have given him some pointers on the other uses of _my_ lyrium ghost." His expression turned cruelly thoughtful. "I could give a lecture myself, you know, all about lyrium ghosts and abominations." He smirked. "Don't worry. Soon, Danarius will be nothing but a pleasant memory." After another nip of Fenris' ear, he finally pulled himself away. "Come. We'll finish this later."

Fenris obeyed.

Before they departed, Hawke made a show of fondling his injured abomination and laying him back down. "A servant will come with your dinner," the rogue said. "I want you to eat all of it."

"Yes," the mage replied dreamily and rested his head on his folded arms.

"Don't do anything to injure yourself further," Hawke added. "I need you strong, to protect me."

Fenris could feel the truth in that statement. There was nothing he could do about it, but he did gain some satisfaction in knowing that Hawke wasn't invulnerable.

Anders smiled. "I will always protect you," he whispered. "I love you."

"I know," Hawke replied. He looked to Fenris. "See? He's never been happier."

"You're disgusting."

The Viscount chuckled. "No more free speech, Fenris."

The elf fell silent, verbally and mentally. Hawke's will asserted itself and Fenris fell into step behind Hawke's left shoulder.

The Tevinter ambassadors were in a wing of the Keep reserved for visiting dignitaries. Hawke entered the long, well-appointed dining room and bestowed a warm smile on his guests. Claudia, already seated at the head of the table, jumped to her feet and slammed her fist on the black ironwood.

"How dare you?" she seethed. "We've been waiting here for _hours_ while you were dallying with your filthy elf whore."

"I had to remind him of his true master," Hawke replied easily. "I didn't realize that Tevinters had such sensitive schedules. Are you truly ruled by your stomachs?" He glanced significantly at her narrow midsection. "Though I suppose that would explain a lot."

"Danarius should have just killed you and been done with it."

"Well, we have you to thank for his change of heart, don't we." Hawke stopped at the corner of the table and pulled the thick, golden rope hanging from a hole in the ceiling. Almost immediately, a sombrely dressed servant slid in through a small door by the credenza. "We're ready to dine," the Viscount said.

The servant bowed and slipped away.

"Now, if you'll excuse me." Hawke strode to the place Claudia had so recently been seated. He looked down at her mildly. "You've warmed my chair long enough, ambassador."

Claudia's angry flush stood out in ugly red spots on her cheeks. Magic crackled around her and it was probably only fear of Danarius that kept her from attacking. Hawke's expression remained smug and impassive, effectively hiding his concern. He was taking a gamble. She could have badly injured, possibly even killed, the Viscount then, without Anders' protection from her magic. Fenris wished that she would. Hawke's death would free him. He would die as well, of course, with the binding Danarius had placed on him, but he would be free.

The Tevinter mage resisted Hawke's provocation, though. She gathered herself to her full, inconsequential height and took the chair next to the head, which she had presumably reserved for the Viscount. Her furious gaze snapped around at her fellow mages, some of which were magisters serving directly under the Archon, and her blush deepened. Hawke had shamed her in front of her peers and superiors.

The shame wouldn't last for long, though. Claudia would be a threat until the Viscount sent her away. If she reacted this way again, Fenris knew that his body would respond and he would take her out before she could hurt his master.

Once Hawke took his place, the meal was promptly served. "We're going to attack Ferelden first," the Viscount began as bowls were laid at each setting.

"What?" Claudia blurted.

"That wasn't the Archon's directive," spoke another mage, the Archon's Emissary Magister Platos. He was an ancient, wizened man, still alive only through the type of blood magic that involved milky-skinned virgins and philosopher's balls. "Kirkwall is to join the Imperium in crushing Nevarra."

"Well, Nevarra isn't about to storm our sea walls," Hawke responded. As he spoke, he held up a spoonful of the first course, some sweet, rose-scented jelly, for Fenris to lean forward and taste. It slid unpleasantly down the elf's throat to rest in his empty stomach. He detected no poison and his master continued. After swallowing a mouthful, Hawke eyed the jelly with distaste and snapped his fingers at the servants to bring the next dish. "We must respond to the Fereldan threat before we can do anything else."

"The Nevarran necropolis is a stronghold of Tevinter artifacts," protested Platos. "Once we have them, our power will be nearly unimaginable. The grimoire alone-"

Hawke waited until a platter of roasted fowl had been lain before him before he interrupted. "I am aware, magister. However, leaving Kirkwall undefended to go on a treasure hunt will leave us with a smoking crater and no trade advantage for your Archon." This time, he held a piece of meat in his fingers for Fenris to try. At the Viscount's silent prompting, the elf sucked the grease from the man's skin. Again, when Fenris didn't immediately keel over, Hawke began to eat.

"What need have we of Kirkwall's trade?" scoffed short-sighted Claudia.

"Kirkwall is your gateway to southern and eastern Thedas," Hawke reminded her. "A well-defended gateway, so long as she has the people to man her walls and harbour chains. I can assure you that, even with the 'mighty artifacts' of which you speak, any attempt to rebuild the Imperium will be heavily disadvantaged by her loss."

The other mages looked at each other. They, too, were not immune to Hawke's reasoning.

"You think too highly of yourself," Claudia finally growled. "Stick to the Archon's plan. You are not irreplaceable."

"You shame your master," Hawke told her. "He created me, after all. Have you no faith in him?"

"Your words make fools of us all!"

"You don't need my help to do that."

The next course arrived, borne by wide-eyed, trembling servants. Fenris noted them and felt the whisper of pity; the miserable creatures would not last the night, not with what they had already learned of Hawke's dealings with the Imperium.

"Will you sit here and listen to this construct? This slave?" Claudia gestured sharply at her companions. "He's going against the plan!"

"He was created to serve the Imperium," Platos chided her. "If this requires him to modify earlier directives, well, we will trust in Magister Danarius' work."

"Then you agree." Hawke tugged Fenris onto his knee and fed the elf a ladle of thick potato soup. His actions and posture, his act of hindering his own body guard, were all carefully crafted to insult and undermine the Tevinters. "We need to strike fast and hard against Ferelden. Kirkwall's standing army is negligible, but we do have the support of what's left of the Kirkwall Circle. I want you to train them in Tevinter battle magic."

"I do not like this," Claudia objected. "This construct will destroy us with our own magic."

Hawke chuckled. "With only three weeks of training? I think not. Besides, once Ferelden has backed down and we've established alliances with Antiva and Orlais, we'll join you against the Nevarrans, consolidate our forces, and continue the conquest of the rest of the Imperium's errant children." He gestured theatrically with his soup spoon. "You can imagine that the forces of Kirkwall, once tried against Ferelden's army, will be far more effective against Nevarra."

The emissaries again looked to each other and the atmosphere around the table was tentatively favourable, apart from Claudia's indignant anger.

"We need to report solid times to the Archon," Platos finally said. "When will you be ready to attack Nevarra?"

"Three months," Hawke assured them. "Perhaps earlier, should Ferelden make herself less of a challenge than I expect. Or should Nevarra make noise as though she expects an attack from the south."

"And what are you doing to establish relations with the rest of the Free Marches?"

"What is there to do?" Hawke shrugged and watched Fenris lick sweet, clotted cream from a blood red strawberry. "The men of the Free Marches are drawn to two, no, three things. Power, money, and the idea that they're better than everyone else. Once Kirkwall makes her move, they'll be down on their knees, begging to join us." He idly played the strawberry over Fenris' pale lips as he thought, and then popped it into his own mouth. "Or they'll be down on their knees, begging for their lives." He finally looked directly at the emissaries and even Platos had trouble meeting his cold, alien stare. "Will that do for the Archon?" he asked mockingly.

"Yes," Platos agreed faintly.

It took a strange, intelligent and cruel man to unnerve a Tevinter magister. Hawke was doing a fine job of it.

"Excellent." Hawke allowed Fenris to stand, but kept an arm slung around the elf's waist. He rubbed his bearded jaw against the scraps of bare skin on Fenris' thigh, like a cat marking its territory. "Find my Head Enchanter, Llewellyn, and train her mages in all but blood magic. Please do remember... The stronger you make Kirkwall's army, the stronger you make the new Imperium."

"We shall," Platos nodded.

"The Old Gods take you," Claudia muttered into her untouched dessert. Her voice was low, too low for a human to hear, but Fenris' keen ear picked it out. He readied himself to attack.

"Easy," Hawke soothed quietly. "Soon enough, we'll add another of Danarius' apprentices to the pile."

This was no consolation. Like having the spider offer to kill the scorpion, so long as you don't mind stepping into her bower...

Full night cloaked the Keep as the two men made their way back to Hawke's chambers. A sombre butler—an old, crooked man who had probably seen a dozen Viscounts parade through the office—bore a light for them through the empty halls. At Hawke's door, the Viscount murmured instructions in the old man's wrinkled ear regarding the dinner's servants and political secrets. The butler nodded dispassionately and made his obeisance before striking back into the gloom.

Anders had been moved to the couch in the main room for his meal; the table still sat close before him. The mage seemed to have fallen asleep, though, resting on the arm of the couch. His eyes were finally closed and his blue light had gone out. The blades of his shoulders rose and fell with a deep and steady breath.

Fenris' first thought was that this was good, but Hawke reacted angrily. "The fools!" he snarled under his breath. "I told them not to let him sleep!"

Thoughts carried faintly through the collar, thoughts of the influence Hawke held over Justice and the mage's waking dreams and what it would take to plunge him back under control. The Viscount hurried to Anders' side, honestly anxious for the first time since Fenris had arrived. Fenris clutched at that slip of information and tucked it away, deep in his heart; Hawke needed Anders. He needed Anders to be under his influence.

"Anders," Hawke called gently, kneeling by the couch. "Wake up."

Once again, when Anders made the transition from one state to another, he expressed a wealth of agony. His head jerked off of his arms. For a moment, his normal pale brown eyes looked on the world and his face twisted in horror and fear. He found Fenris, standing behind Hawke, and he started to say something, but Hawke interrupted him with a kiss. Anders immediately calmed. He leaned into Hawke's bulk, his thin fingers clutched the rogue's shoulders and that familiar light appeared around his fingernails.

"Everything's all right," Hawke pulled away and assured the mage. He kept a firm, gentle grip around Anders' shoulders. "You're dreaming."

"Yes," Anders agreed vaguely. "But..."

"What is it?" He pet Anders' hair, face, neck and chest. He followed his touches with insistent lips. "Do you want me?" he asked.

"Yes," the mage sighed, a word full of longing and desperation.

"Do you want Fenris?"

"He's dead."

"No he isn't. Remember? You're dreaming. And in your dreams, you can have us both."

Anders' colourless lips curved. "Right."

It was the magic of sex. No. It was more than sex. It was the magic of a desire so deep, so powerful, that its target has absolute control over its host. Combined with the abilities Danarius and the Eluvian had given his most recent experiment, as well as Justice's chaotic influence, it allowed Hawke to create a nearly unbreakable bond with the abomination.

Fenris didn't fully understand it, either because it was out of his grasp or because Hawke didn't want him to.

Hawke looked back at the elf. "He's too injured for anything vigorous," he said. "So go easy on him. I know how good you are with your mouth."

There was the uncomfortable sensation of another mind barrelling its way into his own. Hawke wanted to watch. He wanted to experience the memories as Fenris experienced them; memories of that brief moment of happiness before Anders surrendered him to Danarius. The Viscount would bring it up, again and again, raking through the pleasure, the pain, the bitterness. He was sick. He felt nothing of his own. Nothing at all.

Unlike Danarius' slimy cruelty, Hawke's mind was like ice. Like glass. Fenris felt like a snake was coiled in the back of his head.

There was no resisting. Under Hawke's influence, Fenris discarded his sword and dropped to his knees at the edge of the couch. Pleasure and distaste mingled. He looked on Anders' ethereal, faintly glowing form with both desire and fear.

"Fenris," the mage sighed and reached for the Tevinter. "I thought I lost you."

"We'll bind him to you," Hawke murmured. "I won't always be with you, after all." His hand settled on the back of Fenris' neck, on the warm silver, and guided the elf forward.

/.\./.\

It was morning when Hawke finally slept. He bade Fenris sit at the head of the bed and hold him, keeping a weapon always ready. Fenris could hear and feel the Viscount's concerns; he was vulnerable when he slept, more so while Anders was injured. The mage lay awake next to Hawke's broad figure, still content, still dreaming, colouring the chamber with artificial twilight.

Unexpectedly, Fenris' mind was freed from Hawke's grip. He blinked back to himself, felt unadulterated horror and rage. His bare hands lay in Hawke's hair and he wanted so badly to strangle the life out of the man. However, though his mind was loose, his body still obeyed Hawke's parting commands.

Fenris leaned back and closed his eyes. He thought, while he could, about what he had learned of this new Hawke, this Tevinter weapon who had become a creature of cruel intelligence and ambition. During his own retraining, Danarius had told Fenris that controlling Hawke through ordinary means had been impossible. The Champion's will was strong. Even tortured, starved and inflicted with various mind-altering potions and magics, Hawke had withstood the strongest demons at Danarius' command. Finally, the magister had taken Hawke to the University and used the Eluvian.

"No man—elf, human or dwarf—can withstand the Eluvian," Danarius had boasted. "Your mighty Champion took one look and crumpled to the floor. And, oh, the screaming..." The magister paced before his captive, hands folded behind his back. "He was a willing slave after that. Like any demon, eager to make a deal, he will fight for just the mere chance to experience our world." Now he laughed and held up the silver filigree collar that would eventually find its way around Fenris' neck. "You're going to be part of that experience, pet. Bound to him through the power of the Eluvian itself." He sighed happily. "We've learned so much from that mirror. Enough to reclaim our empire."

Danarius had been a fool, of course, as Hawke had already said. Hawke was not possessed. Hawke was _changed_. Hawke had looked on the black city, where once the Maker had sat, and he had become something else. Hawke had become a contender for the Maker's throne.

_Power is easy to come by_, Fenris knew. Even a bastard elf slave could acquire great power. It was control that made a man. Control that could make a god. And Hawke, without a human conscience, with Danarius' influence and Anders' strength bound to his will, could be a god.

_Not a god yet, though._

Fenris couldn't move beyond what Hawke had ordered, but he could speak. "Anders," he whispered. "Are you awake?"

"No," the abomination answered after a moment. His blue eyes found Fenris' face.

"Then wake up," Fenris demanded.

"I don't want to." The mage shifted and reached languidly to put an arm around Hawke's waist. "When I wake up, you're dead and Hawke is... different."

_Without you, he's nothing!_ Anger closed around Fenris' throat like another collar. He hissed, "Anders! You idiot abomination! You coward! Open your eyes! Hawke is going to destroy us all!"

Anders frowned and hid his face in the crook of Hawke's shoulder, close to the elf's captive caress. "Stop it, Fenris," he pleaded. "Don't say that. We're so happy together."

Fenris nearly threw up. The tableau was wrong, so very wrong; Hawke lying sprawled in his lap, heavy with muscle, bare skin crisscrossed by old scars; Anders tucked against the length of the Viscount's body, both protective and needy.

"This is wrong," he told the mage, nearly begging now. "Anders, open your eyes, please! Hawke is-"

Fenris had spoken too loud. Hawke woke and his will closed around Fenris like cold, black water.

"-Hawke needs our help," the elf finished. "He needs us."

"Yes," Anders breathed.

"Keep him safe." At Hawke's urging, Fenris slid out from under the Viscount. "I need to watch the door." He took up his sword and padded, naked, out to the other room.

In the main room, with the light of morning creeping in past the long red curtains, Fenris slid to the floor outside the bedchamber door. He was left out there, cold and alone, until the Viscount's servant appeared with their breakfasts.


	20. Chapter 20

**Warnings:**

This chapter has almost all the warnings (violence, kinky sex, abuse, etc...)! Yay!

Poor Orana ;_; So many carpets to clean...

**Playlist Recommendations:**  
Rage Against the Machine – Killing in the Name Of, Wake Up, Imperial March mix (it makes me lawl)  
My Hero – Foo Fighters  
Filter – Where Do We Go From Here, Happy Together, Can't You Trip Like I Do  
DDR Songs! (I'm so lame) – Dream a Dream  
Escaflowne OST – Shadow of Doubt

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty – Dreams**

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

-Edgar Allan Poe

/.\./.\

The war drakes were the Imperium's adaptation of the Grey Wardens' gryphons, reserved for the most elite of the Archon's warriors and allies. The pair gifted to Hawke were an unruly. It took a trio of the emissaries to control them, even with the complex spells and devices attached to their narrow heads, drilled into the thick bone and horn. Two of the Tevinters, wearing thick leather armour, held onto the twisted chains hanging from the drakes' harnesses, while the third, a woman, concentrated on the magic that kept the beasts from ravaging their handlers.

The Keep's stable yard had been cleared. A line of guards and mages ringed the area, alert and nervous as their Viscount approached the creatures. The drakes were angry, having been long-confined on the Tevinter ship, and they could scent the nervousness of the people around them, underlain by the smell of horseflesh. Their long talons gouged the earth, their tails lashed side-to-side, and they tried in vain to twist their long necks out of the grasps of the Tevinters' hands.

"Go into battle on one of these," Claudia said with some smugness, "and no one will touch you."

"No one will have to." Hawke shaded his eyes to peer at the nearest struggling drake. "I'll already be fighting for my life."

Claudia smiled slyly. "They obey only the very strong, Viscount."

Hawke grunted. "Little wonder the Archon sent them to me."

Claudia's smile swiftly became a scowl. "Well?" she demanded. "Will you show your men how strong their ruler is?"

Hawke's beard twitched with a smirk. "Like you wouldn't believe," he murmured.

The Viscount discarded his finery and weapons and passed them to a nervous page. He waved at Fenris and the warrior did the same. This was to be a task for them both.

Though the two men had defeated drakes, dragons and even a high dragon in the past, this was different. For one, they couldn't dispatch the beasts out of hand. For another, these drakes had been trained for war, for battle against man, horse and mage. They were no simple lizards.

"Release them," Hawke told the handlers.

"Both of them?" asked the mage.

"Both of them."

The Tevinters looked to each other and then to Claudia. Danarius' apprentice smoothly stepped away and nodded. "As the Viscount wishes," she said.

Fenris could nearly hear her laughing to herself.

The handlers at the drake's heads dropped their chains and dashed for the line of guards. The mage held her concentration for a desperate moment. The enchantments covering the drakes' heads flared to brilliant life as they tried to restrain the beasts' movements. Then they broke and the mage ran for cover.

One of the drakes, the one nearest Hawke, lunged toward him, neck snapping up and forward in a snake-like strike at the Viscount's head. Hawke dodged the attack and disappeared from sight.

Fenris' ingrained programming told him to protect his master, to destroy the drake immediately, but Hawke's will over-rode it. The lyrium warrior blinked and looked to the second drake.

The second beast was slightly younger, slightly smaller, but no less fierce. The moment it was free, it whirled toward the crowd and pounced.

Fenris activated his lyrium as he sprinted. He leapt on the drake at the base of the neck, one leg hooked over a vestigial wing and one arm around the hard, whippy neck. With his other hand he stretched to grab the swinging chain.

The drake took offence at this. It forgot the crowd and snaked its head to the side to snap at Fenris' reaching hand. The elf ghosted his arm and the wicked teeth clashed together. The drake's yellow eye widened in its surprise and Fenris took the opportunity to snatch the drake's harness. He yanked it down, dragging the drake's head with it.

The muscles under Fenris' arm bulged as the drake flexed and tried to throw the elf off. Its strength was immense.

Fenris' was greater.

The elf wrapped his legs around the drake's shoulders, his knees under the wing nubs, and forced the drake's head down and to the side, toward his own hip, until its neck was nearly bent in two. It strained against him, yellow eyes burning, and uttered a low, reptilian hiss.

Briefly, Fenris thought that was it; he could take the chain and lever himself onto the drake's back. Then long, sharp talons raked his flesh, igniting fire from his lower back to his shoulder.

The elf howled in pain and rage. He spirit pulsed. The drake stumbled and fell sideways. Fenris snarled again as the drake's weight crushed one of his legs, wrenching the knee. Long practice allowed him to push the agony aside. The drake was already straining to its feet, so Fenris couldn't wait. He reached over the beast's back to the far nub and hauled himself up and over. His bad leg, once free from the drake's weight, hung useless. His other leg slid into position, hooking over the vestigial wing. He settled back, onto the slim piece of hardened leather the Tevinters had strapped on as a rudimentary saddle. He held the drake's chain in his gauntleted hands.

Once the drake had attained it's feet, it tried to snap at him again, but the elf dragged its head down and in, holding the narrow, dangerous jaws close to its plated chest.

There was a wild few moments where the drake bucked and lashed side-to-side and tried to claw its implacable rider. Eventually, though, it quieted. The breath came hot, hard and fast through its bony snout. The ribs under Fenris' thighs heaved. The yellow eyes glared backwards.

Hawke laughed.

Fenris glanced to the side. The Viscount sat astride his own drake, not a mark of injury upon him. His cheeks were flushed with victory and exertion, his eyes were bright. The drake beneath him was subdued, though its tail continued to swing angrily.

"Fit for a general?" Hawke called. He asked it for the enjoyment of his audience—his conversations with Fenris were entirely non-verbal—and commanded the elf to respond in kind.

"Barely," Fenris rumbled dryly. "How about for a Viscount?"

"Very fit." Hawke manipulated his drake's chains and got the beast to pace in a circle. The ring of guards, including the Tevinters, leaned away. "Though it will take time to learn how to use these weapons." He nodded at Claudia. "Thank you again for the kind gift, ambassador."

The Tevinter's smile was more of a grimace.

/.\./.\

It took days for Anders to recover enough to accompany Hawke again.

He nearly fell asleep in his hours alone, but wouldn't let himself. He didn't want the dream to end. If he closed his eyes, Hawke might disappear forever.

/.\./.\

Darktown was stifling, hot and closed in, a rabbit's warren hip deep in human, dwarven and elven filth. Fenris grimaced mentally as he exited the lift behind Aveline. Memories and noxious odours assaulted him. Lost souls drifted about, starved in doorways and warily watched the world from glazed eyes. Someone was crying in a nearby shack, someone else was calling his wares, someone else was shouting angrily, raging against injustice toward the poor. The sounds echoed against the close walls and ceiling, mingling with the distant moan of the sea and the thrum of Lowtown's foundries, somewhere above them.

Once, this had all been familiar to Fenris. Now he wondered how he had managed to return here day after day, on this or that mission with Hawke. He wondered how Anders had lived here, with the squalor pressing in on him, the desperate hands reaching for him, always, for help.

_And never asking anything in return_, the elf thought wistfully. _Why didn't I see it before?_He had certainly had opportunity enough, with how often Hawke went to visit the healer's clinic. At the time, Fenris had merely glowered, exasperated by Hawke's forgetfulness. ("I just need to ask Anders about one more thing," the rogue begged, holding up a finger. "Sorry, Fenris, I know you don't like going down there." "You do realize I'm not wearing shoes, don't you?" the elf replied flatly.) If Fenris had seen Hawke's longing for Anders then, and if he had seen past the blond abomination to the man beneath, the self-sacrifice and the loneliness, this might have all been prevented. Would Danarius have taken Hawke if Anders had been with them instead of miles behind?

The thoughts weren't worth the indulgence. Fenris didn't have time or energy to pursue "what if" or "if only."

"A dwarf named Malek is one of Harlan's lieutenants," Aveline explained as they navigated the narrow streets. "They call her Malice. She runs the Carta affiliates from Orzammar."

One of Aveline's two guards, a tawny male some handful of years older than his captain, shook his head. "Nastier than most," he commented. "I wouldn't want to meet her in a dark alley. Not without an army. Or Captain Aveline."

Aveline snorted. "I already told you, flattery will not get you a raise."

The guardsman settled into good-natured grumbling.

They found the Coterie crier and the entrance to the gang's lair with little trouble. The Darktown populace kept their distance from the guards and their white-haired companion. More than once, Aveline interfered in some squabble or other, sometimes just with a sharp command or a hard stare. "We don't get down here enough," was her familiar lament.

An elf child disappeared through the entrance as the guards approached, undoubtedly to alert the gang members within. His slightly older companion tried to stall them with a conversation edged in fear. The boy was afraid, not of the guards, but of his mistress should he allow strangers to enter Malice's lair unhindered.

"A lovely day, meseres," he said with forced cheer, putting his slender frame in their path.

"Ugh, and Hawke wants children like this to be soldiers?" Aveline wondered aloud.

"Your pardon?" the boy said.

"Stand aside," declared Aveline's flatterer, laying a gauntlet on the lad's narrow shoulder.

"B-but I need to... to make a complaint!" The crier slid out from under the guardsman's hand and waved his thin hands urgently. "You have to stay here and listen to me!"

Aveline chuckled. "It _is_in the law, Ulric," she agreed. "Even the children know it. Ensure you take careful notes." She clapped the man on the back, metal against metal, and strode around Ulric and crier. Fenris and the third guard followed.

Both crier and Ulric objected with calls of "Wait!" But there was little they could do. The last Fenris heard of them, the lad was babbling something about some poison merchant and Ulric was muttering about a career change.

As expected, the Coterie's hospitality left much to be desired. The trio descended a set of shaky wooden stairs and found a dim, smoky room of dwarves seated at long wooden tables with cards and drink. The suspicious glares and ominous silence did not bode well for any chance of a peaceful discussion with their leader.

"Where's Malek?" Aveline demanded fearlessly. Her shield had deflected dragon fire; a gang of criminals, even if they were former Carta, wasn't going to cow her.

"Who's Malek?" called one dwarf, sniggering.

"Otherwise known as Malice," Aveline replied. "Your leader. You can either tell me or we'll search every room. And I'm sure we'll find more than enough to put you all away."

There was some muttering, but no one spoke out.

"Very well." Aveline strode briskly to the room's only door. She reached for the knob.

A crossbow bolt slammed into the wood, spitting splinters and barely missing her shoulder.

The Guard Captain turned, green eyes narrowed.

The dwarves sat at their tables, silently staring.

Fenris, little more than a shadow, paced silently behind the dwarves, unnoticed. He spotted the dirty male with the crossbow, already preparing to load another bolt. The elf, without giving warning, ghosted his arm and reached through the dwarf. The former Carta soldier gasped a cry as the translucent limb erupted from his chest. Fenris grabbed the bolt and jerked it back into the dwarf's breast. Sideways. Then left it there.

The dwarf gurgled, spit up fluid, and flailed uselessly at his unmarked chest. A moment later, his eyes rolled up in his skull and he collapsed backward at Fenris' feet.

"Well," Aveline said, carefully hiding her unease. "If no one has any other objections?" She snapped the bolt out of the wood and opened the door.

Fenris padded after her and the other guard, head tilted to watch the dwarves they left behind, waiting for another attack. Wanting another attack.

None came. The trio left tense quiet behind them.

The next hall was empty. The hall after that was trapped. The third guard, though, was an experienced rogue and probably had traps like these as a baby's baubles. The slim elf woman quickly disarmed a path for her captain and their eerie companion.

They didn't meet resistance until they reached Malice's office. There, five dwarves and one human mage, all better equipped and cleaner than the Carta rabble in the first room, were waiting. They immediately attacked with battle cries and the roar of a crude fire spell.

Aveline, shield high, shrugged off most of the attack and shoved away two stocky warriors. Her rogue guard, armed with a crossbow, shot into the melee with careful precision.

Fenris ghosted. His sword brightened with ruddy death. Teeth bared, he whirled past Aveline's shield and struck a blow that sent three of the enemy flying, to crash into Malice's desk.

A pitiful spirit bolt scorched the skin of his face like a mild sun burn. Fenris lifted his head and sneered at the mage.

Hurriedly, the mage surrounded himself in a protective barrier. Fenris smirked, sauntered toward the man, and waited. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Aveline and her guard dispatching the warriors.

Like a seal coming up for air, the mage had to expose himself. He managed to cast some entropic attack, something that weakened Fenris' arms, but the only result was that the man died in one piece, a great rent in his side, rather than being entirely sundered in two.

The other fighters were dead when Fenris turned. Aveline was barely out of breath, stretching her neck and rolling her shoulders. Her subordinate was applying an injury kit to one arm and her wide eyes flicked to Fenris, away, and back again, quick and nervous.

Fenris glanced about. The room was plain, floored and walled in rough wood, the ceiling was braced earth. There was a desk, a chest, two chairs and a bookshelf. There was no Coterie lieutenant.

"Lovely," Aveline breathed. "She must have gotten past us."

Hawke, watching through Fenris, urged the elf toward the bookshelf. "Not quite," he intoned. He wedged gauntleted fingers between the wall and the darker wood of the shelf and tugged.

The shelf swung smoothly inward.

"You'd do Hawke proud," Aveline said cautiously, coming up behind the elf.

Fenris didn't respond. He stalked forward, through a narrow tunnel and into a warm, comfortable sitting room.

"Ah, nug shit." A dwarf woman in a noble's clothing, pantaloons and doublet and all, lounged on a low couch. When they entered, she paused in drinking out of a fine glass and looked up from a small red book. One of her eyes had been replaced with a chip of lyrium. The scars from whatever took her eye covered the side of her face and gave her a permanent half-smile. She bared that twisted grin to the world unashamedly; her hair was shorn close to her skull.

Two dwarf girls waited on Malice with soft hands, delicate foods, and very little clothing. They looked up, branded faces carefully expressionless with the stoic apathy of born slaves.

"Sodding incompetents," Malice sighed. "Did they at least scratch you? Please tell me they scratched you. I was paying them a sov a week. Each."

"One of them snapped my wire," Aveline's guardswoman offered helpfully. "I think it nearly broke my arm."

"Ancestors be praised." Malice cleared her throat and spat. "Well, what can I do for the honourable Guard Captain and..." She peered at Fenris. "The Viscount's dog? If I'm not mistaken."

"Watch your mouth, for one." Aveline frowned. "The Viscount is drafting you and all your cronies into the Kirkwall army."

Malice laughed. "Kirkwall has no army."

"She does now." Aveline dug a folded parchment out of her armour and tossed it at the dwarf, where it landed in the lap of one of the slave girls.

Malice picked it up by the corner, between thumb and forefinger. Her eye narrowed above her scarred smile. "And why would I join a surface army?"

"Money and power," Aveline shrugged. "And if you don't, you'll be executed as a traitor to Kirkwall."

Malice stared hard at the Guard Captain. Aveline hid her own disgust for Hawke's edict well, her expression mild and expectant.

"And you would be my executioner?" the dwarf asked, looking to Fenris.

Hawke moved behind his eyes. "You would remember my face for the rest of your life," he promised.

"I see."

"Bring your men to the Gallows in two days," Aveline continued. "All of them. You will also provide the names and locations of Harlan and the other gangs of Kirkwall."

"That's a large order," Malice said. Her own amusement had vanished. "I do not take commands, guardswoman."

Fenris caught sight of movement; the shifting of the dwarf's weight, her subtle cue for one of her slaves to take her drink, her fingers dipping into a fold of her finery. When she threw the grenade, he was ready for it with a gentle gauntlet.

Malice froze, brown eye wide.

"Some kind of lyrium grenade," Fenris observed thoughtfully, rolling the small orb, sensitive to the latent magic. "The Viscount will want the recipe. Bring it with you."

To prevent further arguing, he looked around her sumptuous apartment and tossed the grenade idly in his hand. With each impact on his palm, the skin around Malice's eye flinched.

"And remember," he added at Hawke's silent prompting. "You can either be very rich... Or very dead."

He slid the grenade into his pouch and turned away, dismissing Malice and her ineffectual anger.

After a moment, the guards followed.

/.\./.\

"You make them nervous," Hawke told his guardian in an undertone, smirking toward the assembled Kirkwall mages. This was readily apparent in the wide eyes of the young apprentices and the poorly veiled discomfort and disgust in the faces of the older mages.

The Viscount stood to address the group. There were maybe thirty of them in all, including the line of Tevinter magisters lurking quietly to one side of the hall. For this audience, Hawke's valets had ushered his courtiers out. This was private. Intimate. The Viscount and the newly liberated.

"My friends," the Viscount said. He opened his arms as though to embrace them.

The mages looked to each other, then looked back.

Hawke chuckled. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for being citizens of Kirkwall."

They didn't seem to know how to take this. Hawke's words, expression and actions were so different from that of the Chantry, it confused them.

"In the coming months, you'll learn how important you are to Kirkwall. To me." Hawke wasn't going to let their confusion resolve itself before he took advantage of it. "You're going to be on the front lines. You're going to protect your city and your people. You're going to be victorious. Glorious."

Anders watched them. Though many were young, they were powerful. Under Hawke's verbal ministrations, they were losing restraint and gaining excitement. Anders could nearly see them sloughing off the dead skin of their former captivity.

"Are we going to war?" asked an elf woman. She was neither old nor young, but her face was pinched and severe from past hardship.

"I will not lie," Hawke said smoothly. "That is still uncertain. Thedas is... struggling. Kirkwall the most. We were struck low by the Qunari invasion and then Meredith's... eccentricities. If we don't work to rebuild now, we may be taken by another country."

"What does that matter to us?" another mage, an older male, interjected. "One Circle is like any other."

The Viscount shook his head. "There is no Circle here, my friends."

This broke the mages' silence. They muttered urgently to each other.

"You will be as any Kirkwall citizen," Hawke continued over them, nearly crooning. "You will be paid for your service, you will have a home, you will have a family, you will have... prestige. Honour. Life." He had to pause for a moment to let the murmurs die down. He lifted his hands. "All I ask is that you protect Kirkwall as we all do." He gestured toward Anders. "Should there be war, you will follow your general. You will fight beside my soldiers and beside each other."

"The abomination?" Again, the elf woman spoke up, her disbelief clear. "He caused this mess!"

The Viscount merely replied, with utmost gentility, "This 'mess' is the best thing to happen to the mages of Thedas. I would think you'd want to protect your new freedom. The freedom that Anders gave you. The freedom I will help you keep."

There was silence.

The Head Enchanter finally stepped forward. "I swear fealty to Kirkwall," she declared strongly. With some effort and supported by her staff, she went to one knee.

One by one, the other mages followed suit. All but the narrow-faced elven woman. She stood to one side as her fellows dropped. When she was the last, she clutched her staff and scowled deeply at the Viscount and the abomination.

"Am I the only one who remembers the death? The murder?" She waved sharply to the side for emphasis, her dark purple robe rippling. "Anders thoughtlessly destroyed the chantry and everyone in it. Then the templars attacked! Orsino had to become a, a monster just to fight them off!" Her cheeks flushed as she made her accusations, as she spoke of the previous First Enchanter. "He was a good man and Anders killed him!"

Llewellyn heaved herself back to standing. "Meleyna," she said softly. "We all know what happened. We all suffered. But now we can make our lives new again. We can move on."

"No! There is no _moving on_." The elf cracked her staff down on the marble floor and jabbed a finger at Anders. "I demand retribution."

"Meleyna," Llewellyn protested. "You don't mean that. You don't know-"

"I mean it," the elf said. She strode forward. Her eyes brightened and spirit energy wreathed her staff and her open hand. "I will not be afraid," she called. "He is just an abomination. And a murderer."

"Be careful," Hawke said quietly, half-turning to Anders. "We just got you on your feet again."

Anders nodded and went to meet his adversary.

Vengeance surged, opening the Fade, channelling power through him. He whirled his own staff, cracked it to the floor and sent lightning streaking up at the other mage.

She responded with a wily and surprisingly strong transmutation spell, stripping away Anders' shielding and striking him under the skin. He grunted at the unexpected pain and hurriedly cast a series of defensive spells while she roared and sent fire cascading toward him. He sheltered behind a barrier and arcane shield and waited for the flames to pass before lashing out with ice. Quickly, he sent a stone fist right after, but she was too well-defended; the ice barely frosted her breath and the stone fist shattered on her own barrier.

"Not so mighty now," the elf scoffed. "When you aren't killing _innocents_!" She spat a curse and a hex bloomed on the floor beneath Anders' feet. Weakness sapped at his body and mind, and the spirit bolt that crashed into him next struck deep. He went to one knee.

Anders grit his teeth and his serenity crackled. Vengeance reacted to her accusations with blind rage. He reached for the whispering, the howling, and sent fire whipped into a frenzy by wind. A storm of such fury that, for a moment, even Anders could no longer see his target.

When the air cleared, most of the audience chamber carpet and half of the drapes were mere cinders, ashes drifting slowly to the floor. The mages were pressed back against the walls. Some were missing eyebrows.

Meleyna was gone.

The abomination straightened and breathed. Wearily, he paced back to Hawke's side.

"Your general," Hawke repeated. "I assure you... following him is far healthier than giving him a reason to follow you."

/.\./.\

There were over a hundred thugs in the Gallows courtyard, standing about and waiting to be admitted into the new barracks, when Malice, Aveline and thirteen of her elite guard finally dragged Harlan in from the city gates. It had taken days to root him out, following rumours and leads from over a dozen different arms of the Coterie. They had finally found him in the Blooming Rose, hiding under one of the second floor beds, and they were taking him to the Gallows for judgement.

He was an average-looking human male, considering that he was the leader of the Coterie, with drab brown hair and a drab, solemn face. His clothing was normal citizen's garb, something that Gamlen might wear if he had the money for felted wool and tightly-woven linens. Harlan was someone who could pass for anyone, anywhere, which was probably the secret to his success, and the fact that he was still alive.

"You bitch," he snarled, and it was unclear if he was cursing at Malice, Aveline or the world in general.

"Viscount's law," Malice replied cheerfully. She still wore the livery of a dwarven noble caste and her face was clear for all to see. She turned her twisted grin and lyrium eye on her former commander. "Harlan, is it my fault that you refused to obey? Is it my fault that they pay me more to be a good soldier than you paid me to be bad?"

The thugs, a collection of hygienically questionable dwarves, humans and elves, parted before the group. Perhaps one in twenty recognized the Coterie's hidden leader, and a good half recognized Malice. The rest were just bored and mildly interested in the man being escorted by such a large company of stony-faced guards.

"You can't do this!" he howled. "I own this city!"

They reached the top of the stairs and Aveline signalled her guards to toss the man down. He rolled for several steps and came to rest on his back, groaning, his head pointing downward. When his vision cleared, the upside-down image he saw was of the cow-faced herd of his own thieves and murderers, staring at him in stupid complacency. This group, too, parted, but it was to allow a single elf through their midst.

Garbed in black, red and silver, white-haired, dark skin tattooed with silver, the Viscount's general was unmistakeable. Barefoot, he ascended the stairs toward Harlan.

The Coterie leader forced himself onto all fours. He hurt everywhere. Days of hiding from Aveline, coupled with their rough treatment, made him weak. He wasn't much of a fighter, anymore, anyway. He preferred the administrative side of crime.

Before he managed to stand, bare toes dug into his shoulder and shoved him back down. He gasped as his stubbled chin cracked against hard stone.

"This is a free city," Fenris said, deep and penetrating. The first ranks of criminals muttered their agreement. "You own nothing but your mistakes."

The Viscount's general finally let Harlan rise onto his haunches, where he collapsed back, elbows braced on the steps. He stared up at the elf, gaping and rubbing his chin.

"Will you be a man or a corpse?" Fenris asked dispassionately.

"How dare you," Harlan hissed. "You're just the Fereldan Viscount's black dog! His black bitch!"

"Corpse it is," the elf said. He looked back, green eyes searching, and lifted gauntleted fingers to flick some of Harlan's men forward. "You. String him up. The gulls and crows will feed on him."

The men looked to each other and shifted nervously.

"Don't be fooled!" Harlan shrieked at them. "You'll never have the power the Viscount promises!"

"Many of them won't," Fenris agreed. "They must work for it." He turned his head to address their audience. "But, they'll have more opportunity than in Darktown. Under you."

Harlan refused to lie there and listen. He ordered his sore, old body to move. He jumped up and tried to tackle the slender elf. If he got Fenris down, maybe took his sword, then his men would rally, they could carve their way out!

Fenris easily caught one of the criminal's wrists and swept the man sideways, so he dangled over the lower steps. His tattoos blazed against his dark skin. Harlan squeaked at the pain in his hand, arm and shoulder. He tried to reach with his other hand and kick with his feet, but he was too weak, too injured.

"Pathetic," Fenris sneered. His green eyes lifted. "This was your commander," he told the assemblage. "Now I am."

Once again, Harlan found himself tumbling down the stone steps. There was a shock of pain from his hip and back, then he forgot it as he cracked the back of his skull and briefly lost consciousness. When he could see again, he was dazed, staring up at his former soldiers. He panicked, _Where's the elf?_

"String him up," the Viscount's dog ordered again, answering Harlan's fearful thought by striding into view. Fenris folded his arms and smirked. "Keep him alive, though. Let him see what his pathetic gang will become... The most feared army in Thedas!" He roared the last, fist lifted, and the gangs of Kirkwall—Harlan's men—responded with a cheer of their own.

"No," Harlan uttered weakly as eager fists grasped his clothing, his legs, his arms, his hair. "No, no, no!" They dragged him away, kicking and screaming, to the slender cages dangling around the Gallows.

/.\./.\

Hawke wasn't nervous, but he was... concerned.

"Varric might not understand," he said mildly. "Anders, I need you to stay here."

The mage's vacantly contented expression softened into a sad frown. His bright blue eyes blinked rapidly at the Viscount.

"I'll protect Hawke," Fenris assured the dreaming abomination. The Viscount coiled around his mind, irresistible. He leaned forward, took Anders' hot face in gentle hands and kissed him, easing away the mage's fear.

"I know," Anders replied when they separated.

"Take the time to study," Hawke suggested. He rolled away from his generals, planted his feet to the floor, and rose. The windowless room was lit only by Anders' glow and the lamp Fenris had brought with him when he entered at dawn. The naked Viscount shone golden in places, with blue shadows in others. He sauntered to the small desk shoved against the wall and stroked the book laying there. It was an evil thing; when Hawke was feeling especially vindictive, he enjoyed forcing Fenris to touch it and watching the burned skin react to the elf's tattoos like a living thing hungry for magic.

"I do not like it," Anders protested feebly.

"And it doesn't like you," the Viscount chuckled. "But it won't talk to me. I'm no mage." He wandered away, to his wardrobe. Fenris watched and felt the familiar, foreign desire rising within him, along with a healthy dose of nausea.

Hawke was in a Mood. He was worried of what Varric might pick up on; out of his former companions, the dwarf had the keen mind and observation skills to realize that the Viscount and his generals weren't quite what they had been.

To assuage that worry, Hawke prodded Fenris, provoked him, filled the elf with hatred and need.

Though the Viscount was, by all appearances, simply dressing himself, pulling on the black trousers he favoured, his will was at work in Fenris.

The elf's insignificant resistance crumbled. He stood and approached the Viscount, took the man's bare shoulder and turned him.

"Oh," Hawke said, a smile curving his lips. "What a pleasant surprise. I suppose we can spare a few minutes if you really want..."

If Fenris had been allowed, he would have spat a refusal, a curse, anything other than what he was forced to say. "I do," he murmured. "I do want." His throat was tight, the words hurt. He reached out to Hawke's waist, the tanned skin, the ridge of hip and heavy human muscle. He put his pale lips to Hawke's collar bone, his strong shoulder, the thick tendon of his neck where his black beard was just a smattering of soft hairs.

Hawke hummed his appreciation. The rough pads of his fingers played over the silvery tattoos covering Fenris' arms and back, making the elf shiver and squirm. He gripped Fenris tightly at his naked hips, enough to hurt the thin flesh covering the bone.

Fenris was compelled to push against the larger body, against Hawke's blatant need. His own flesh responded in kind, ready and wanting, despite the shame burning under his skin.

The blue shadows of the room shifted and Anders was there, his inhuman heat lapping at Fenris' back. The mage lay kisses along the tops of Fenris' shoulders and slid his soft, thin hands over the elf's ribs, to stroke the scarred planes of his stomach and chest.

"You taste like magic," the mage murmured. "You feel like magic."

If anything, this was worse than Hawke's caress. Anders didn't know, he didn't see what was happening to him and Fenris. His love was real and honest, as real as in the desert, though without the shadow of guilt and shame. He was living in a fantasy and he didn't see the danger or the horror.

While Anders walked in a dream, Fenris slunk through a nightmare.

The mage touched Fenris with tiny shocks, delicate tingling electricity. The elf arched his spine, shoving himself more firmly against Hawke. The Viscount chuckled, reached past and shared a kiss with the abomination, their chins whispering close to Fenris' long ear. The elf wanted to close his eyes or shy away, but he couldn't. He pulled Hawke closer, leaned back so he was sandwiched between them, a conduit for Anders' power and Hawke's need.

Hawke's pants, so recently laced, were quickly undone and discarded by Fenris' long fingers. They crumpled to the carpet and the Viscount was gloriously naked once again. Grinning wickedly, he pushed Anders and Fenris backward, toward the bed.

"Varric is a patient man," he said.

His generals agreed.

The mage hit the bed and sank down, pulling Fenris with him, still caressing the elf's chest. Fenris carefully kept his weight off of Anders' wasted body. Hawke was not so gentle; the rogue clambered onto the two other men. Fenris accepted him with open arms and tilted hips, meeting turgid flesh with turgid flesh.

"Anders," Hawke said hoarsely, "Make me ready."

"Yes," the mage breathed. He reached around Fenris and wrapped his blue hand around the Viscount's thick erection. Hawke groaned happily and sighed when Anders cast the small spell to make him slippery.

This was both good and bad... For Fenris, it meant it would hurt less, but it would make him enjoy the act more; which sickened him.

The Viscount was ungentle. He pushed the elf's thighs up and apart and drove himself in, releasing a grunt at the effort. Fenris cried out because Hawke wanted him to cry out.

Hawke prompted the elf to move in ways that pleased him, to melt and stiffen, to roll and meet thrust for thrust. Anders continued to lavish his affection on Fenris' torso where he could slide a hand or a lick of magic between the bodies of his two lovers.

Hawke was impatient, distracted and dwelling on his upcoming meeting with Varric. So, he was hard, rough, and he demanded his lyrium warrior to employ his special skills to bring the Viscount to rapid completion.

Fenris had difficulty concentrating, with Anders' ministrations and Hawke's insistent thrusts, the crush of his own need between their bodies, but he managed. He ghosted his arm, reached into Hawke's spasming abdomen and stroked the man's prostate. Hawke wouldn't allow either Anders or Fenris to take him, but this... This, he enjoyed.

The Viscount's eyelids fluttered and he uttered a low cry. With three violent thrusts, he was spent.

Fenris nearly followed him over, but Hawke stopped him, clamping down his immense will. "No," he panted. "I'll need a pleasant distraction." He rolled off and lay sprawled, sweat-shiny in the lamp light, breathing heavily. He grinned at the canopy. "Nothing better than keeping you on edge."

Anders was still very interested, though. He ground against Fenris' tail bone, hard and insistent. He wasn't as strong as he had once been, when they had lain together on the border of Nevarra and Tevinter, but the roving of his hands was accompanied by ice and fire.

Hawke insinuated himself back into Fenris' head. He made the elf roll in Anders' embrace and respond to the mage.

As his generals writhed together, the Viscount chuckled and went back to dressing.

Later, after Anders had been appeased and Fenris had donned his uncomfortably tight and revealing armour, Hawke strode through the Keep to the Contessa's Garden, a small rose garden off of the main courtyard. Varric had sent word of his arrival in Kirkwall only the day before and Hawke, not wanting to appear suspicious, had immediately invited the dwarf to the Keep. In order to keep Varric from interacting with Hawke's courtiers, the Viscount had selected this secluded place for their meeting.

Fenris picked out the familiar voices as soon as he followed Hawke into the open air, though they were still on the opposite side of the courtyard. They followed the broad gallery around the court and Fenris listened. They were talking, laughing. Aveline's voice was light and amused, something that Fenris hadn't heard since the war broke out between Chantry and mage, since Hawke had left Kirkwall. There were Varric's easy tones, followed by the quick, uneven rhythm of Merrill.

"How was I to know that Antivan children could drink that much?" the blood mage said. "I didn't wager the gold, anyway. It was Varric!"

"Don't blame me, Daisy. A ten-year-old drank you under the table!"

"So you lost all your money on a bet? And then what?"

"Then I had to convince the barkeep that I was a merchant from Orzammar-"

"You _are_a merchant from Orzammar!"

"Oh, Red, not anymore! So I convinced him I was a merchant waylaid by bandits and I'd have the money as soon as my Dalish huntress had found their camp-"

"Merrill doesn't look at all like a huntress!"

"Yeah, but he didn't know that."

Hawke and Fenris turned through the entrance into the small garden and saw Varric. The dwarf's back was to them, the sun gleaming off of his blond hair and Bianca's shaft. He was on his feet, pacing back and forth and waving his arms for the benefit of his enraptured audience. Aveline sat in one delicate white chair, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair and her eyes bright. She was hunched over, hands on her knees, still shaking with laughter. Merrill was in another chair, legs pulled up, looking both entertained and scandalized.

Fenris was struck by how normal they looked. He felt like he had gone back in time.

Then Hawke helpfully tweaked the elf's body, sending a surge of need that made walking even more uncomfortable, reminding Fenris of the cruel present.

"Hawke!" Merrill spotted them first. The slim blood mage scrambled up, a little less than graceful, and bounded toward them, belt and green tabard flapping against her thighs, yellow scarf bouncing on her shoulders. Where once her face had born solemnity as obviously as her tattoos, travel with Varric had opened her expression. Her smile was wide and unhindered as she threw herself into the Viscount's arms. "I missed you!" Her thin arms and legs went around the man, with little regard for his armour and weaponry. She tucked her narrow face between a spiked shoulder and Hawke's beard.

"Merrill." Hawke embraced her warmly, like he would his sister, and rested his cheek on her black head. Her hair was longer, reaching just past her shoulders, but she kept them in the small, uneven braids.

"Careful, Daisy," Varric called. "You know how Fenris gets. If you don't get to keep the blood on the inside, you won't be able to do any magic." He swaggered toward them, arms open, familiar smirk on his broad jaw. "Besides, where's my hug, serah Viscount?"

Hawke shifted Merrill's small figure to one hip and leaned down to grab the dwarf in his other arm.

Varric laughed and slammed the Viscount on the back. "Hawke! Why didn't you tell me you had your eyes on ruling? If I'd known, I would've kept my room at the Hanged Man."

Hawke straightened and set Merrill back on her bare feet. "I didn't, really," he replied. "It just happened. Besides, you wanted to travel. Show Merrill the world. Teach her how not to get lost."

"Well, it didn't work," Varric said. "More the opposite. For some reason, Daisy makes me forget where I'm going." He winked and the blood mage giggled. "We can settle down for a while, though. Get you established."

"I think I can manage." Hawke's half-smile effectively hid his dismay.

"Most of your old friends are gone, anyway," Aveline added. "Hawke figured out a way to flush out the Coterie."

"You're shitting me! That's half the Merchant's Guild right there." Varric lifted a broad hand to wave down Hawke's response. "This is going to take some explaining. First..." He moved to where Fenris still waited and looked the elf over. "Broodier than ever," he observed. "I don't know about the new look, though. Your last outfit screamed 'escaped slave,' but this one slaps people in the face with it."

"I lost a bet," Fenris replied at Hawke's silent prompting. He stared at the dwarf and wondered if Varric could see the desperation buried deeply under the calm exterior. Though, if Varric did notice... He wouldn't last very long to make use of that information. "Besides, it's easier to kill people when they're laughing."

Varric snorted, but he didn't argue.

"How about some drinks?" Hawke interrupted, motioning for his friends to take their seats. "I want to hear the end of that story, Varric. And the beginning, for that matter."

"I haven't reached the end yet. And the beginning, well, you already know." The dwarf winked at Merrill.

"I think he means the part where we got lost in Antiva," Merrill said. She wandered back from a rose bush and passed a bloom toward the dwarf. "This is for Bianca."

"And Bianca thanks you, Daisy." He wrapped a strong arm around the elf's narrow hips and tugged her toward the table. "It all started with that Crow. So, no shit, there we were..."

/.\./.\

Anders stared at the grimoire.

The grimoire stared back.

/.\./.\

"Hawke, I wanted to tell you something," Varric said while Aveline and Merrill had gone to attend to mysterious female matters. "I don't want Merrill to know because she'll get worried and maybe try to drain the blood out of a Chantry seeker..."

"What is it?" the Viscount asked. He leaned over to refill their cups.

"I was... apprehended by a seeker. She wanted to know about you. All about you. And how the war started."

"Hmm. What did you tell her?"

"The truth."

"Your truth."

"You make it sound like they're two different things." Varric shrugged and his golden chest hair glimmered with the motion. "Nothing I hadn't already written about."

"And stolen from my journal."

"Well..." The dwarf considered his cup and then tossed back the contents. "Anyway, she might come looking for you now that you're in one place. Don't be surprised if a group of Nevarrans come knocking."

Hawke slowly smiled. "I won't."

/.\./.\

The letters squirmed unpleasantly, fleeing Anders' gaze. He could nearly hear them, crying out against him and the Fade that shone from his eyes. They couldn't run forever, though. They would yield their secrets to him.

/.\./.\

"A lot less men glare at me now that you're Viscount," Merrill commented as Hawke walked the blood mage and dwarf to the Keep's gate.

"I don't know," Hawke replied, "I think they glare at me more."

"Are you sure you don't want someone to watch your back?" Varric asked. "In a political sense, anyway. I know Fenris watches you. Broodingly."

"I'll be fine." Hawke nodded toward Aveline. "The councillors stand with me. So does most of the city. So far."

"Aw, they just don't know you very well yet."

"I know you want to take Merrill south, anyway. And you might want to do that sooner rather than later."

If Varric noticed the innuendo, he showed no sign of it. "Well, all right, but you know you can call on me if you need anything." He looked back at Fenris. "That goes for you, too, elf."

"My thanks," Fenris replied.

Merrill, her large eyes glowing in the slanting twilight, smiled at the Tevinter. Then her smile failed. The two elves paced behind the human and the dwarf, closer than they had been throughout the afternoon, and she seemed to sense something. "Fenris," she said, "that's an interesting, um, necklace."

"Isn't it?" Hawke interjected, falling back to get between the elves. He forced a chuckle. "I thought it matched his tattoos. Maker's balls, it was hard to get it on him, though."

"I don't see why. Nothing says 'I will slice you in half' like a well-matched accessory. And a large sword."

"Can I take a closer look?" Merrill persisted, trying to edge around Hawke.

The Viscount remained solidly in her path. "Actually, I have a meeting with the Tevinter emissaries... We really need to go."

"Tevinters?" Varric repeated, golden brows lifting.

Fenris could nearly hear Hawke's inward cursing. The Viscount maintained a calm, easy expression, though. "They seem to think a new ruler means new trade agreements. I'm having fun dangling carrots for them. I need _something_ to entertain myself."

The dwarf chuckled. "Don't have too much fun. Everyone will want to be Viscount."

"Shh," Hawke hushed him, glancing about nervously. "Don't give them any ideas."

Varric and Merrill laughed, then, and said their farewells. When they disappeared into the Hightown streets, only Merrill looked back at the Viscount and his companion, her gaze lingering curiously on Fenris.

/.\./.\

The coven from Starkhaven argued adamantly that they did not practice blood magic. They knelt before the Viscount's dais and swore it on their lives.

"We heard your call, Viscount," they said. "All we want is to fight for you. We will serve you faithfully."

"Enchanter," Hawke prompted.

Llewellyn emerged from the small crowd of Hawke's courtiers and officials. She limped before the four mages and began to cast.

Almost immediately, two of them shrieked and doubled over, hands over their ears. When they squinted up, blood ran freely from their noses and eyes.

The two other mages threw themselves away from their bleeding companions.

Cracks opened in the blood mages' skin, emitting ruddy light. Hawke's courtiers gasped and screamed and stampeded away from the dais as the two figures twisted and changed into grotesque abominations.

The abominations roared their hatred and fury.

Hawke sighed.

The Viscount stood, trotted down the three shallow steps and sliced one of the creatures open. Such was the power of Anders' enchantments that the abomination fell nearly immediately, its innards and green demonic ichor spilling out onto the red carpets and marble floors.

Llewellyn and one of the Starkhaven mages dispatched the other one as it tried to shamble its way toward the defenceless audience, leaving behind a faintly steaming corpse and a large, stinking mess.

"We should interview the new mages somewhere else," Hawke commented to his Head Enchanter. "Otherwise, Orana will quit." He fastidiously cleaned his daggers off on a scrap of robe left over from the first abomination.

She nodded and looked like she might be sick.

Hawke's herald, once prompted, called out, "All potential mage citizens return to the courtyard! Retain your designated numbers!"

With some grumbling, the dozens of men and women, some in Circle robes, some in the garb of apostates, and most armed with staffs in a variety of shapes and sizes, filed out.

Hawke ambled after them, followed by his Head Enchanter, Anders, and his curious courtiers. "This might take a while," he said conversationally. Then he smirked at his glowing guardian. "It's a good thing I like mages."

/.\./.\

"You must stop this."

"Stop what, may I ask?" Hawke steepled his hands and regarded the trio of finely dressed Starkhaven emissaries. The Viscount was pleased, though he hid it under a veneer of irritation. He had, in fact, been looking forward to this encounter. For that reason, he had invited the emissaries to the main audience chamber and filled it with his jewel-like courtiers. He enjoyed watching their attempt at threats and intimidation, even while they glanced uneasily at the large stains that hadn't quite been washed out of the carpet.

"This bid for power," replied the main speaker, some cousin of the Vaels. He was aged and angry and looked on Hawke with obvious condescension. "Every mage in the Free Marches is _flocking_ to you. Like sheep. Sheep that can start fires!"

Hawke spread his hands and shrugged. "Is that my fault?" he wondered. "I offer nothing but protection and identity."

"And you house that blighted renegade!" roared the Starkhaven lord. "We demand that you release him to our custody for trial!"

"Do you?" Hawke murmured dangerously.

Fenris shifted, responding to Hawke's eagerness for a battle. There were over twenty Starkhaven soldiers standing behind the emissaries, including five mages. The elf looked them over and decided that they were strong enough to be a problem, particularly if they went after the audience.

Hawke gleaned that information from his general and said, "How about I summon him, then?" He leaned sideways and commanded one of his pages to go and fetch the abomination.

The emissaries glared while they were forced to wait. Hawke maintained a mild expression. Fenris stood solidly.

Finally, Anders emerged from a side door, walking slowly, his face serene. The men from Starkhaven stiffened and the mages especially reacted in surprise.

"That's inhuman," spat their leader. "A wretched thing that needs to die."

Anders took his place at Hawke's side.

"Now," Hawke said, "what was it you wanted, again?"

"That," the emissary snarled, pointing at Anders.

"Ah." The Viscount rubbed his beard and slouched comfortably. "Well, this should be amusing."

Anders paced forward, descended the stairs, and stood, silently glowing, before the man from Starkhaven. The soldiers shifted uneasily and the mages edged backward, their expressions turning fearful. The emissary didn't seem to notice. He didn't, however, seem to know what to do.

"You're coming with us," the emissary finally snapped, reaching out to grab the abomination's arm. As soon as he touched Anders' coat, he hissed and snatched his hand back.

Someone in the audience tittered.

"Take him," the emissary ordered his soldiers, scowling.

"Um... Lord?" one of the mages started. Her eyes were wide as she regarded the abomination.

A troop of five soldiers, though, didn't seem to notice the mages' fear. They marched forward and tried to take the abomination's arms and staff.

Two immediately dropped him. A few, more resistant men, held on long enough for their gauntlets to start glowing orange from the heat. They screamed and fell back, tried to tear off their armour, failed, and shrieked in agony as smoke roiled from the joints of their gauntlets. The stench of burning flesh quickly rose to Fenris' nose. Some of Hawke's courtiers groaned and at least one started to retch.

The emissary, his eyes bugging and his face livid, scrambled away and howled, "Kill him! Just kill him now!"

The rest of the soldiers and a few of the braver mages surged forward, pulling their weapons and casting their spells.

Now Fenris intervened. He drew the Sword of Mercy, leapt off of the dais and took a position at Anders' side. An ice spell hit him in the chest, crusting his breastplate and freezing his exposed skin, and an entropic cloud descended on them both. The elf snarled. The pain and the mild weakening did little more than make him angry. He swung his sword in a broad, horizontal arc, pushing back several of the soldiers. Anders sent more of them flying with a blast of wind, then rained fire on the mages at the rear of the group.

Hawke made no move to join in, beyond prompting Fenris to notice the man with a crossbow sidling behind the abomination. The elf quickly dispatched him, then scythed back into place to ward off a nasty-looking brute wielding an axe. The human shrugged off a bolt of lightning from Anders, though it tore the flesh of his face. That only seemed to madden him more and he roared in berserker rage.

The axe plummeted. Fenris braced himself to take the hit; he wouldn't dodge when Anders stood behind him. The dull edge screamed down the red Sword of Mercy and lodged against the cross guard with enough strength to force Fenris' arms down. Instead of withdrawing, the furious elf dropped his blade altogether. The berserker's axe crashed into the marble floor, cracking it, and exposed the brute's torso.

Fenris reached up, ghosted his hands, and tore out two warm, throbbing handfuls of the berserker's internals.

The large man stood, blinking rapidly, staring at the elf. He lifted his axe again, raining chips of dusty marble. He lifted it over his head to bring it down again.

"You're already dead," Fenris informed him coldly.

The man blinked. Then he coughed a bit of red phlegm. Then he toppled backwards.

Fenris dropped the pink flesh and reclaimed his sword. When he turned, it was to see a lot of dead Starkhaven soldiers. The few that remained alive huddled around their leaders, staring at Fenris and Anders in abject terror.

The abomination bore a slight scrape on his translucent cheek, but was otherwise unharmed. He gazed out at the world with his usual dreaminess.

"Well," Hawke said. "I'll be very happy to send him to Starkhaven. I'll even provide Fenris as an escort. I'm sure they'll enjoy meeting your prince."

Fenris sneered and flicked some gore off of his fingers.

"Or, if you'd rather, you can take this treaty to your masters." Hawke pulled a roll of parchment from his belt and tossed it at the emissaries. "In which case I won't need to send my generals to your beautiful city."

The lead emissary unrolled the parchment with hands shaking either from fear or rage. He glanced over it, lips moving, and then shouted, "This is no treaty! This is a surrender!"

"Really?" Hawke looked shocked. "Maker's breath, I gave you the wrong one! I was supposed to give this to you _after_ I invaded." He shook his head and flung up a hand. "My mistake. Sometimes I am _so_ absent-minded." Then he smiled. "Though, this does give your masters the opportunity to surrender _before_ I kill most of them."

The emissary drew himself up. "You arrogant barbarian! Maker strike you if you think I would put this filth before my prince!"

"Pity." Hawke leaned forward and his arm blurred.

A knife struck the emissary in the chest. He looked down, gasped wetly, and crumpled.

The other two emissaries turned panicky faces to the Viscount.

Hawke lifted his eyebrows and glanced from one to the other. "So, which of you would like to take it?"

They both dived for the parchment.

The Viscount laughed. Soon, his courtiers were laughing, too.

/.\./.\

"You can't do this!" the Harbourmaster cried, expression aghast as he stared down at the Viscount's edict. "We're not at war!"

"Martial law is in effect," Aveline told him grimly. She didn't want to, but Fenris' green stare was boring into the back of her head, the weight of it nearly palpable. "Every ship in the harbour has been claimed by the Viscount."

"But... But... You're going to have a thousand sailors tearing this place apart to get back to their ships!" Liam clawed at the air like a drowning man.

"They'll be paid," Aveline reminded him. Internally, she added, _Somehow._ "Only the ones who don't accept the Viscount's terms will be confined to land."

"An Orlesian silk merchant is not going to want to ferry a hundred soldiers to Amaranthine!"

"Then they'll sit in a cell while someone else ferries the soldiers." Aveline tapped the edict. "Argue it with the Viscount if you want, Harbourmaster."

"You can't do this! The _blighted Viscount_ can't do this!"

Aveline felt more than heard Fenris moving. Even when the elf merely shifted his weight, it was threatening. She shivered and leaned forward, putting her face near Liam's sunken, scar pocked cheek. "I have seen enough of death," she murmured. "I don't want to see more. Hold onto your life and follow your orders." She straightened. "They'll get their boats back. Probably."

"_Ships_," Liam corrected. He didn't object further, though, perhaps from Aveline's honesty, or perhaps he, too, felt Fenris' cold glare.

They departed together, the Guard Captain and the Viscount's general. People were starting to call him the Black Dog after his show at the Gallows, with varying tones of respect and distaste. Aveline was starting to understand where the name came from. Fenris had changed. Sometimes, he seemed his normal, brooding, dry-witted self, usually when Aveline engaged him in conversation. But other times he was silent, expressionless, and perfectly violent, like a loyal beast with no will of its own.

Around her, the city was changing. There was an air of fanaticism, of hatred, of hungry joy. Crime had gone down, as Hawke said it would, with the recruitment of the gangs into the swelling army, but this had come at some cost.

She didn't understand what that cost was, not yet, but she could feel it. She could smell it on the breeze that flapped the new Kirkwall banners, like incense.

Or smoke.

/.\./.\

The secrets held in the grimoire were terrible things. Little wonder that the letters and symbols were twisted, afraid and angry.

After days of trying to catch them, Anders finally resorted to gentle murmurs to lure them out. "I won't hurt you," he promised, his tongue feeling strange as it shaped the grimoire's language. "Tell me what you know and you won't have to hold it anymore."

He stroked the edge of a warm page and it shivered under his touch.

Finally, with a nearly visible shudder, the grimoire gave itself to him.

The letters solidified on the yellowed leaves, the images went still, the spine relaxed to allow it to open easily on the small desk.

Anders pored over it, absorbing what he could.

Later, in the quiet blue darkness, he repeated what he had learned to Hawke.

Hawke, resting his head on the mage's thigh, listened and smiled.

/.\./.\

"Lord Viscount." A mage bearing the badge of a Kirkwall official on his shoulder knocked and poked his head into Hawke's office.

"Mm?" Hawke continued writing, barely sparing a glance for the solemn young man.

"A message came from the Ferelden Circle..." He cringed a bit, as though expecting the Viscount to lash out in anger at the name of the other country.

Hawke finally looked up. He favoured the mage with a half-smile. "What does it say?" he asked kindly.

The mage slunk further into the room. He held a piece of paper in his shaking hand. His gaze passed over Anders fearfully before returning to the Viscount. "It was, uh, the king. Asking about the, the Warden?"

"Ah, of course." Hawke held out his hand and gently took the proffered paper. He read it silently. "Excellent," he said, mostly to himself. Then he pulled a blank parchment toward himself and wrote a response. "Please send this back. The Warden departed for Nevarra over a month ago, but we haven't heard anything from him. If he wants us to send out a party to search for him, we'll be happy to do so. I am, personally, deeply indebted to the Warden."

"Yes, ser." The mage accepted Hawke's command with a deep bow and backed out.

Hawke waited for a moment, thoughtfully stroking his beard. Then he chuckled and craned his neck to smirk at Anders. "Are you ready?"


	21. Chapter 21

In which there are plots within plots and a lot of explosions.

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine. Jerks.

**Playlist Recommendations:**  
Johnny Cash – Ain't No Grave  
Jet Set Satellite – The Beast, Resurrexit  
Trans-Siberian Orchestra – Toccata-Carpimus Noctem, The Mountain  
Alice Cooper – Welcome to my Nightmare, Poison, Disco Bloodbath Boogie, It's the Little Things

Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe

Chapter Twenty-one

The first two ships were merchant vessels in truth, bearing Orlesian flags. At least on the outside. They pulled into the Amaranthine port on a warm, breathless afternoon, when the Waking Sea was calmly sparkling and all was quiet. The Amaranthine harbourmaster allowed them to dock with little trouble. He was a bored, overweight man and only briefly looked at the ship's deck, the handful of wary sailors, and the dockets. Then he moved on.

He whirled back around when he heard the splintering of wood, shouting, and the blood-curdling roar of a dragon.

A drake, fury rolling off of it in hot waves, surged out of the ship's belly and came crashing down on the wide pier. In a pique of anger, it snatched one of the sailors in its narrow jaws and flung the screaming man away, to splash into the dirty harbour. Then its dark, white-haired rider hauled its head around to face the city.

The harbourmaster gaped and the fluid chill of terror dribbled down his spine to his trembling knees.

When scores of armoured men boiled out of the ship, their weapons aloft and their voices raised in a rowdy battle cry, the harbourmaster fled.

He didn't get far. The second ship, waiting further up the pier, very nearly exploded. Its sails went up in flames and more soldiers swarmed onto the pier. Some bore the long, intricate staff of the mage, sparkling with power. Behind them came another drake, its tail lashing.

"I said to signal the others _after_ we were off the blighted boat!" shouted the drake's bearded rider over the _whoosh_ of the fire, the hammering of boots on the pier, and the hollering of the soldiers.

A dwarf trotted alongside the drake, apparently unconcerned by proximity to the beast. She laughed and turned, displaying a scarred and twisted smile. In her hand, she tossed a small orb. "I didn't want anyone to lag behind," she called back. "Ser!" Her eyes, one dark and the other glowing, found the harbourmaster. Her grin widened. She threw the orb.

/.\./.\

Amaranthine fell.

Citizens ran screaming through the streets, chased by the well-trained and well-equipped criminals of Kirkwall. Fires licked at the wooden buildings and smoke darkened the sky. The chantry and the templars held their own for a time, until Fenris turned his attention to the barricaded doors. His mount flowed up the stairs and the soldiers of Kirkwall quickly moved aside, away from the snapping jaws and the long sword.

The elf pulled out one of Malice's lyrium grenades and lobbed it at the doors. The explosion ruffled his white hair and made the drake sneeze, but it did little against the iron-banded wood.

Fenris tilted his head thoughtfully. Then he closed his eyes in grim acceptance as unwanted inspiration offered a solution.

Another grenade came to hand. Fenris urged his drake forward, close enough to the doors that his knee brushed the scorched wood. He ghosted his arm, shoved it in between the two doors, and then sent his drake scrambling away. They reached the bottom of the stairs before the grenade exploded. Flaming wood and twisted metal flew by overhead. The elf turned and regarded the smoking hole and the darkness beyond.

His soldiers waited, hesitantly, far from the doors.

Fenris glared at them. "Well?" he demanded icily. "Charge!"

Two of them, formerly minor Coterie lieutenants, held their weapons aloft and roared through the opening, followed by a stream of soldiers and a few brave mages.

The large, old inn, bristling with the weapons of veteran dwarves, human Fereldans and two Grey Wardens, and fortified with casks of ale, could have been a challenge. However, Anders had already divulged everything he knew of the city. Hawke directed Malice and her dwarven regiment to the smugglers' tunnels and passageways that riddled Amaranthine.

It wasn't long before the inn's windows flickered with fire and bodies rained to the cobbles and dirt below.

The city defenders didn't stand a chance, not when the invaders were led by two drakes and a host of mages. By dusk, the gates were closed and Amaranthine was Hawke's.

/.\./.\

"That way lies Vigil's Keep," Hawke said, contemplating the southern horizon as he stood atop the city wall. Behind them, the Kirkwall army ran amok in celebration, apart from the disgruntled few tasked with watching the walls and harbour. Before them, the hills and fields were limned in ruddy light from the setting sun. The Viscount's brows furrowed as he squinted at the retreating Amaranthine citizens.

Malice asked, "What's a Vigil's Keep?"

"Grey Wardens," Hawke explained. "It won't take them long to attack; Amaranthine is theirs. Though they may wait for reinforcements from Denerim."

"And then what?" Malice prompted, adding a belated, "ser?"

"We raze the city," Fenris answered for Hawke.

Malice turned her bright lyrium eye on the elf and looked him over. One of her exposed teeth gleamed gold. "I don't see the spot where you shove your hand in," she commented to Hawke, "to get his mouth to move like that. Ser."

Hawke snorted. The emotions Fenris felt through the collar were a mix of irritation and amusement. "You're very perceptive," the Viscount said. "For a woman with only one eye."

"It's not the eye that matters. It's the brain behind it." She looked back toward the south. "And I've brain enough not to mention this."

"I'd hate to lose you," Hawke murmured.

"And I'd hate to be lost," was the dwarf's cheerful reply. "So. We destroy the city, then?"

"Grey Wardens have a fierce reputation," Hawke said. "We won't be able to hold them off. Though I suspect it won't be long before we have the strength to."

"Have you thought of travelling the Deep Roads?" Malice wondered. "They come up everywhere."

Hawke's mood became less irritated and more appraising. "It had... crossed my mind," he lied. "I don't know that I'd want to battle hordes of darkspawn just to reach a battle with Fereldans."

"Unless we find a way to herd the darkspawn out. Ser."

The Viscount and the scarred lieutenant shared a quiet moment.

"Come up with a means," Hawke finally said, drawing it out. "And I will have a third general."

"Very good, ser," Malice chuckled. "Very good."

/.\./.\

Over the following weeks, Hawke fanned the flames of war that Anders had kindled... and Thedas burned.

Delicate treaties and alliances went up like dry tinder. Latent disputes rose like many-headed hydra across the lands; civil wars, religious wars, magical wars. Hawke had an interest in each, supporting one faction or another, removing this or that leader. Rulers could barely control their governments; hordes of people streamed to Kirkwall and her dangerous, silver-tongued Viscount. Hawke's army of criminals, freed mages and the underprivileged swelled and devoured all it encountered. The Viscount's generals and lieutenants soon numbered in the dozens, as infamous men and women of legend joined his ranks. They led his soldiers on devastating raids throughout Ferelden, Nevarra and Orlais.

None were so dreaded as the Black Dog of Kirkwall.

Fenris was little more than an extension of his master's will. Hawke glared out at the chaos through the elf's eyes. Astride his snorting drake, Sword of Mercy in his hand, Fenris directed his soldiers to sweep over the towns and farmsteads of Ferelden. Then, when the horns of war sounded, he melted into the smoke and gloom, like water escaping the Fereldan King's net.

When the Free Marches were his, when Antiva and Rivain were uneasy allies and Ferelden a crippled foe, Hawke finally recalled his elven hound. At the growing insistence of the Tevinter Imperium, the Viscount turned his attention on Nevarra.

/.\./.\

And, in the shadows, Fenris received the glimmer of light he long ago told himself not to hope for.

A reflection of moonlight on the edge of a blade and a richly accented murmur.

"You will die like a rabid dog... knowing that I am about to slay your master."


	22. Chapter 22

In which there is hope.

**Warnings:** Elaborate scheming

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing~

**Playlist Recommendation:**

Heather Dale – The Morrigan

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty-two**

At night, Fenris' mind was his own. His body was not—his body obeyed the orders and commands his master gave him—but his mind was his. It was a bitter-sweet gift. As the nights slowly passed by, he never could decide if he wanted the ability to think, or if he wished he was enthralled as Anders was enthralled. Anders, though he had been steadily eaten from within by Justice and Hawke's influence, had no conscience to scream at him, no fear, no anger, no despair, no brief and hated joy when Hawke did or said something that made Fenris think that, somewhere within the monster, the Champion of Kirkwall still lingered.

_Though, if he were still in there, I should think he'd wish himself dead._

The things that the Viscount had done in the past months, Fenris knew, would kill the Hawke he had loved.

_He really will create a new Empire. Or whatever it is he's doing._ Even with the connection between them, the elf did not know Hawke's ultimate goal.

The worst part, in Fenris' momentarily free mind, was that the people of Kirkwall and the thousands who had joined him _rejoiced_ at the actions of their Viscount. They proclaimed that he would lead them to glory and affluence. He would make of them a nation of heroes. They were completely unaware of the chains that Hawke had placed on them, turning them into a vehicle of war and chaos. Much like the elegant collar around Fenris' neck that made him, once more, into that creature of unstoppable violence.

Between the two of them, Fenris and Anders could wipe out entire legions of the enemy at Hawke's command. Even the Tevinters feared Hawke's two greater generals. In his darker moments, Fenris tried to imagine the dismay Danarius and the Archon must feel at taking Fenris instead of the abomination.

Fenris' ruminations ceased as Hawke shifted in sleep in the next room and the collar suppressed his own thoughts. He felt the Viscount's dreaming, something hungry and dreadful, a longing unquenchable by anything in the mortal realm.

Hawke slid back into deep sleep, releasing Fenris from his compulsion. Several minutes had passed. The square of moonlight that regularly marched from the top of the fireplace to the floor had descended by a few inches. The sounds of the Keep at night—a _drip-drip_ from deep within the building, the _scritch_ of mice, the low yowl of breeding cats, the rustle of an owl or a curtain—continued unabated. Fenris sat on the threshold of Hawke's bedchamber, the hilt of his sword supported on his spiked shoulder, the silver tip resting on the thin carpet, faintly blue from the light seeping around the door. This was his post when he was in Kirkwall; a lone soldier to replace the dozens who surrounded Hawke when his loyal hound was in the field.

He sensed danger before he truly knew why.

Fenris' blood rose, his attention sharpened, his grip on his blade tightened. Only then did he register what his keen ear had picked up. It was the scuff of leather on stone. Too faint for a guard's footstep, too regular for an animal. It seemed to be coming from the window and, as it grew louder, it was accompanied by a breath, the slightest catch in it indicating careful exertion.

_Someone is climbing the wall_, Fenris thought, impressed despite himself. The Viscount's apartment was on the third floor and the walls were smooth white stone free of blemish or vine. Not only would the assassin, for that was undoubtedly who this unidentified person was, have to climb, but they would be quite conspicuous against the pale walls.

While he waited, Fenris idly wondered how the assassin had managed. Perhaps they used a grapple. Perhaps they were descending rather than ascending; having attained the roof at some other, more vulnerable place. Aveline would find the weak point when the assassin's body was found in the morning, like so many others. He also wondered what type of man or woman this would be. A hired assassin, or one bearing a personal grudge. Desperate or cold? Skilled enough to be a challenge and wake Hawke? Or would they die quickly and quietly, like a mouse in the jaws of a wolf?

The shadow of the assassin should have appeared beyond the draperies, back-lit by the moon-drenched night. However, without the barest flicker of visible motion, the sounds moved from above to below the casement and terminated in the metallic click of the latch.

If Fenris had truly wanted to protect his charge and had the free will to do so, he could have gone to the window then and attacked. However, he kept hoping that someone would get by him and put an end to this. He would only act directly as commanded. Until Hawke dictated otherwise, Fenris' lone command was to protect the door and the men behind it.

So he watched from the bedchamber door and waited.

The window opened just enough to admit the sounds of the far-off city, industrious even in the early morning. A shadow finally did appear, but only when a breeze pushed the drapery itself. Only then, because Fenris was watching closely, did the elf see a hump of a shadow and hear the scrape of more leather, perhaps a trace of metal.

_Very good_, Fenris observed. Sickening hope lurched in his chest. He pushed it away, knowing it would hurt him more than anything else. _But not good enough. No one will ever be good enough._

Knowing that the assassin was in the room, Fenris' skin crawled and his limbs burned for him to rise and hunt it down. He remained still, though.

Amazingly, Fenris saw and heard nothing of the assassin as the person made their way around the edges of the room. Without the exertion of climbing, the intruder's breath was absolutely silent. That hope returned. So long as the assassin was smart enough to kill the guardian before making an attempt on the Viscount's door, so long as Hawke didn't wake and lash his will back into place, perhaps Fenris' wish would come true on this strange night.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, there was a murmur. "You will die like a rabid dog." The heavily accented voice was familiar. "Knowing that I am about to slay your master." The assassin had somehow gotten into the space behind Fenris' shoulder, in the inky blackness where a chair leaned against the wall.

Fenris didn't turn to look. When a cold blade lay against the side of his throat, he tilted his head to allow better access.

Loopholes in his commands, loopholes he had found by constant prodding when Hawke's attention was elsewhere, loopholes that allowed him the meagre few acts of genuine mercy or genuine repentance. He had found one now.

There was a pause.

"Do it quickly, Zevran," Fenris whispered, the name coming to him from an ancient past, something more like a dream than a memory. The Tevinter leaned onto the blade; he was forbidden from killing himself, but he could make his wishes more obvious.

"You want me to kill you," Zevran stated. The assassin was close enough that Fenris could smell the other man; under the tang of sweat and leather, he reeked of liquor.

"You must... if you want Hawke," Fenris explained. He felt Hawke stir and held up a gauntleted hand to prevent Zevran from speaking. With care, he closed his eyes and stilled his own mind. It wasn't long before the Viscount's slumber deepened. "If you want to face his abomination, anyway," he amended thoughtfully. "He'll turn you inside out, but at least I'll be gone."

The Antivan hissed, "Why don't you kill him yourself? The Warden told me about you, about your bravery and ferocity in battle. Yet here you are, cowering in a doorway while my Warden rots in some hole."

"Shh."

Hawke was restless, coming close to waking, either from the whispers, from the activity in Fenris' mind, or from some internal, biological process.

"Your hand," Fenris requested, barely audible. He held up his own.

Zevran obliged him without removing the blade, placing his free fingers in Fenris' waiting palm. Fenris moved them to the silvery collar that twined in cruel elegance around his neck.

"Then I'll remove it," Zevran growled. "And we strike together."

Fenris shrugged and sighed. "It will kill me anyway, but more slowly. You may as well knock on Hawke's door now."

The assassin huffed his frustration. "Flaming enchantments," he swore. "If I find one who could remove it, you'll fight with me, yes?"

Doubtless, this would result in Fenris' relieved demise. The Tevinter nodded.

"Swear it, dog," Zevran insisted, a ragged edge to his voice.

Eyes closed, Fenris nodded again. "I swear."

He forced himself to ignore the faint noises that the assassin made in his departure. Zevran made it easy. When morning shed her light in the Viscount's chambers, there was no sign that there had ever been an intruder.

/.\./.\

It was weeks before Zevran appeared again, long enough for Fenris to assume that he had fantasized the entire event out of desperation. In that time, Hawke took his favoured generals west to lead battle after bloody battle against the Nevarrans. The Tevinters struck from the north, but the Nevarrans resisted well. Only with immense effort did the Kirkwallers push their enemy back into their well-fortified cities.

Fenris received very little from Hawke, but he managed to glean that defeating the Nevarrans was the least of Hawke's desires. Rather, he provoked enough of a counterattack to keep the Tevinters occupied, and then set his hard eyes on another goal.

The Viscount ordered his men to hold, keeping the Nevarrans hemmed in, and left them under the command of Malice and another general, a mage named Aleksandr. Then he tore toward Nevarra City, with only Hawke, Fenris and a small brigade of mounted warriors and mages at his side. They crossed the open fields and stayed away from the Imperial Highway. This far from the main battles around Cumberland and the highways, the Nevarran holds and scouting parties were not expecting Kirkwall's unstoppable Viscount and his elite soldiers. They dispatched many hapless, under-powered Nevarrans before they finally reached the region around Nevarra City itself. To the east, the Tevinter armies lay siege to the large city. To the southwest, however, the lands were empty and desolate, populated by scavengers.

Here, Hawke finally called a halt to their wild flight and they took shelter in an abandoned farmstead.

"Anders, Fenris and I go on foot from here," Hawke told his men over the miniscule fire built in the main room. "Stay quiet. Wait for our return."

"Yes, ser," they answered, all of them wise enough not to ask their commander why he was here.

All Fenris knew was that it had to do with Anders, the Necropolis, and the grimoire that the glowing mage carried like a frightened child. As they drew closer to whatever goal Hawke had in mind, Anders spoke to the book more and more, soothing it.

"Soon," the mage murmured with a dreamy half-smile. He sat cross-legged by Hawke, the grimoire in his lap. The pages seemed to flex under his touch.

They were to depart in the morning. Hawke claimed the largest and most luxurious room for himself and his favoured general and ordered his soldiers to keep a watch through the night. Fenris, he dallied with only for a small time. The Viscount was distracted, his thoughts elsewhere. It wasn't long before Hawke sent the lyrium warrior out, to lay at the door.

The sounds of the homestead quickly became familiar. There was the whisper of wind through the surrounding trees, the calls of small animals mating, dying and being born. The drakes in the barn grumbled their disappointment at being confined to a building that smelled like animal, without being able to hunt. The horses were exhausted, their breathing strained, and unnerved by proximity to the drakes.

Two of Hawke's brigade slept nearby, a mage and a warrior. There were six of the soldiers in all, each of them a small legend in their own right. Four walked rounds on the homestead perimeter, in two pairs of a fighter and mage working together as a single, formidable machine. In a way, each pair mimicked their wicked generals in how they fought as one.

When Hawke finally drifted into a light, restless sleep, Fenris indulged his own thoughts. They were few, wearing away under Hawke's control, proximity to whatever Anders had become, and the bone-deep weariness that came from chronic lack of rest. He leaned against the rough, splintered surface of the door and ambivalently viewed the evidence that a simple peasant family had once lived here. They had had young children, he noticed, and an elder had, at one time, sat near the hearth in a sturdy rocking chair.

They were probably dead or crushed in with the refugees crowding Nevarra City.

_Refugees like Hawke,_ he wondered. _But how many of them will become lords and murderers?_

The night wore on.

The taste of magic in the air was subtle, barely detectable, but growing insidiously stronger. It was little more than a hint of darkness and musk.

At first, Fenris thought it was coming from Anders, that Hawke's guardian had discovered some threat. The abomination was rarely so subtle, though; if he was going to cast something, chances were good that it would level the homestead. This was something else.

As when he had noticed Zevran, Fenris did nothing but wait. He probably wouldn't have to wait long. If Anders picked up on a hostile spell, he would go berserk. Fenris, too, had been ordered to react to hostile magic. He just hadn't decided, yet, that this was at all hostile. For all he knew, it was one of Hawke's men, and he held onto that thought strongly, taking shelter in the loophole.

_One of Hawke's men deciding that his fellows need to sleep better_, Fenris added internally when he noticed the deepening breaths of the men in the room with him. Like a mother's touch, the subtle spell caressed the soldiers and pulled them under. Wisely, it avoided Fenris and kept its distance from the blue-limned door he guarded.

All was soft, all was silent. Fenris could no longer hear the rustle of night animals or the grumble of the drakes. Even the trees were quiet.

The homestead door creaked open. Moonlight pooled in, turning the wooden floor into old bone. Then Fenris finally heard a noise, a fast clicking or tapping, like many hard feet carrying a large body forward. For a moment, nothing could be seen in the inky shadows cast by the trees growing in the yard. Then a figure moved out of the darkness and into the light.

It was a human woman. Her appearance was wild, barbaric even, all leather and fur, face obscured under a dark red hood, but enough white skin to turn her into a glowing spectre. Her skirt was what made the noise; strips of leather and beads clicking together. She held a crooked black staff that looked like it had been pulled off of a burnt tree, but the power that rolled from her was both immense and cautious.

Following her was Zevran's silvery form. The elf assassin's tattooed cheeks were more gaunt than when Fenris had first met him on the Wounded Coast, his expression grim and wary.

The woman strode directly to Fenris and stared down at him with startling, pale eyes. He returned the gaze and hoped that she would make no move to attack him. He didn't want to alert Hawke to her presence. With this creature under his control, he would be even more unstoppable.

"Tis a simple thing," she said softly after a long, considering moment. Her voice was rich and light, strangely pleasant. "A Tevinter mockery based on Eluvian technology."

Fenris startled. She knew about the Eluvian?

"You can remove it?" Zevran asked.

"Definitely."

"Without killing him?"

"Now that is a trickier matter. Perhaps, but not here." She hummed thoughtfully. "It may be easier to kill him."

"Hawke will act through me, no matter how far you take me," Fenris warned, agreeing with her. He stiffened. Hawke slept too lightly not to respond to the quiet voices. "He stirs even now..."

"Zevran," the woman spoke, "now would be a good time to act."

"I thought you'd never ask." The assassin pulled a flask from his belt.

All at once, Fenris' awareness dwindled to the edges as Hawke flooded his mind. The warrior leapt to his feet and swung his blade at the female mage, howling in rage. He knew what she was doing.

"You will not take him!" the Viscount snarled through him._  
_  
Zevran's flask hit him square in the face. Unlike a magical sleep spell, which could be deflected by a surge of Anders' influence, the perfectly mundane and potent drug was immediately effective.

Fenris lost all of his strength. His sword dropped and he stumbled forward. Hawke scratched and scrabbled in his head, trying to force an action that Fenris was completely incapable of.

The dark elf collapsed against Zevran. The female mage lifted her staff and did something to shield them from Anders, though Fenris knew the abomination could wield far more power than any human should. This strange mage would not last for long.

She didn't have to. Zevran hefted Fenris' limp form over his shoulder and sprinted for the door. The mage followed. A maelstrom of wind and fire squeezed around them, but the female's darkness repelled it. Out in the yard, the trees danced in a frenzy and burst into flames. The earth trembled. Someone, one of the soldiers or a horse, screamed.

"Go!" the female shouted and shoved Zevran toward a slit in reality that glowed black and indigo.

Without pause, the assassin dived through.

They floated. Fenris, though he couldn't move, see or speak, felt free for the first time since Anders had betrayed him to Danarius. No one sat in the back of his head, no one walked through his dreams.

_I am dead_, he decided.

Then they fell out the other side.

Zevran and Fenris landed ignobly in a pile of elf and armour, on a cracked stone surface. Zevran immediately crawled away and started to retch. Fenris would have done the same, his stomach seemed to have been left somewhere in that darkness, but Hawke rolled back into place like an infernal tide. The Tevinter's body had regained some tiny amount of feeling and control, and Hawke was determined to use anything available to kill his captors.

Fenris pushed himself to all fours and lunged at Zevran's hunched figure. The assassin squawked, twisted, and somehow got the groggy warrior on his back.

"Hold him down," came the woman's cool command.

Zevran's paltry weight would have done nothing, but it was joined by a pair of hands as hard as granite and just as heavy, holding Fenris' shoulders pinned to the ground. He arched his back and roared up at the impassive face of a golem.

"This one is not as squishy as most," the golem commented.

Zevran, slung over Fenris' knees and already suffering a split lip from the Tevinter's wild thrashing, scowled and shouted, "Not squishy enough!"

"Stop whining," said the mage. "This was your idea." She knelt at Fenris' head and slid her fingers behind his neck. He tried to bite her. "Vicious," she murmured. "I like it."

Hawke forced words through his mouth. "Get away from me, witch! You don't know who you're dealing with!"

"Oh, I know very well."

She said something that Fenris and Hawke didn't understand, a quick chant of short, brutal sounds. Her voice became rough, guttural, like an animal. With unexpected strength, she forced Fenris' head to turn, to regard the tall, ornate mirror beside him, its surface a terrible void.

"Go back," the mage commanded. "And do not return. This mind will never hold you again."

"You will kill him," Fenris uttered.

"And he would thank me for it!" Her grip twisted the metal of the collar, heating it until it burned Fenris' neck. "You would be trapped here, fiend!"

Fenris followed Hawke's rapid thoughts. If the mage broke the bond between Fenris and Hawke while the rogue was in Fenris' mind, it would hurt and inconvenience him. The mage had carried them through an Eluvian, somehow using the ancient relic to transport them far from Nevarra. There was no telling what he would have to go through to get back to his own body.

Hawke shrieked a curse and fled.

The mage immediately closed the Eluvian. Then, grimacing at the effort, she rent the collar apart.

The patterns and bindings that Danarius had forged in Fenris' mind and heart shattered. He fell into oblivion, a free man.

/.\./.\

Fenris was gone and Hawke was furious. He didn't show it, not in his expression, but his rage bled into Anders like a poison.

They stood in the blackened clearing where the homestead had been, surrounded by ashes, scorched rock and the spindly charred remains of trees. Only two of the Viscount's soldiers remained, but Hawke was unconcerned. His men had served their purpose in getting them this far. The horses, likewise, were gone and not missed. Fenris' drake had vanished. Hawke's drake, being more resistant to flame and magic, stood by its master.

Energy crackled around Anders, reflecting blue off of the smoke that still clogged the night air. Fenris had been taken by someone and he wanted the elf back. The dream wasn't right without him.

"Come on," Hawke grumbled. He stepped forward, his boot grinding charcoal into dust. "I can almost hear the Nevarrans. They'll be drawn to the fire." His remaining soldiers, the mage and fighter who had fallen asleep furthest from the building, started to tentatively follow. Hawke scowled and at them. "No. Go and be a distraction. Draw them away. Get out of here. If I have to look at you, I'll have Anders tear your skin off."

The two men glanced at each other and ran in the other direction.

"The Necropolis isn't far," the Viscount continued bitterly, mostly to himself. "We'll be there by morning. Maybe the blighted drake will be distraction enough to get us in."

They travelled through the rest of the night, on foot as Hawke had dictated. The rogue led them, finding a narrow animal path through the long grasses and clumps of trees. He held the drake's chain, punching the beast on the neck whenever it tried to snatch at something in the brush.

Anders followed the lashing tail and the shadow of his beloved, the book quivering and warm in the crook of his arm. When he grew tired, he called on the Fade to carry him. The entire night seemed to glow around him, the stars whirling overhead, tangling in the reaching trees.

It was beautiful. The dream would have been perfect with Fenris.

They attained the Necropolis when the sun was still below the horizon. From the top of a low rise, the Viscount and his guardian could see the miles of mounds and mausoleums, the convoluted paths between them, the jagged chantry, and the thousands of tiny lights from the Nevarran army encamped on the other side.

"Fools," Hawke scoffed. "They leave their greatest weapon undefended." He locked the drake to a thick tree. "Stay here," he commanded both beast and mage. Then he turned and stalked away, stealthing before sliding down into the Necropolis outskirts.

While waiting, Anders sat and studied the grimoire. The letters were agitated. The magic within them could feel how close they were to being spoken, to being released.

The sun had overcome the lights of the Nevarran army by the time Hawke returned. His movements were like the wind in the grass and trees; quiet, crackling. His expression was satisfied, his beard tilted with a half-smile. He came to Anders and offered his gauntleted hand to the mage. "I've cleared the way," he said and pulled Anders to his feet.

The rogue led them toward the chantry through the empty lanes. Three times, Anders caught sight of a leg or an out-flung hand, of a recently deceased Nevarran joining their ancestors in the Necropolis labyrinth; Hawke's handiwork.

The drake was nearly too wide for the winding avenues. Its vestigial wings scraped against the stone sides of the mausoleums and caught on the bizarre statuary as they passed, its harness enchantments sparking. The beast was not impressed and kept trying to bite Hawke before Anders finally reached out a hand and shocked the thing.

The drake tried to whirl around to attack the mage and cracked its head into a stone gargoyle.

For a while, the drake was much more docile.

At the centre of the Necropolis, dawn painted the chantry's obsidian spires pink and its windows gold. At the base, though, the closed door and the broad stairs still clutched at shadows.

"Be careful," Hawke warned. "I had planned to do this with Fenris."

Anders nodded sadly and prepared them for battle, sheathing Hawke in barriers and auras.

Without pause, Hawke strode to the tall door and banged on it with a gauntleted fist.

The sisters within apparently had no way to see their unexpected visitor, otherwise they would never have cracked the doors open. As soon as Hawke heard the bar slide away, he threw his weight against the heavy wood. There was a startled exclamation from within. At the sound of the frightened female voices, the drake took an interest. It rose up on its hind legs, tail nearly whipping Anders, and clawed the door.

The combined force overcame the women on the other side and the door crashed violently inward.

"You know what to do," Hawke murmured with grim pleasure before stealthing.

The two sisters on the other side screamed when the drake rampaged in. One lost an arm to the snapping jaws, but the other managed to scramble backward and start running down the main hall. Several armoured templars sitting and standing about startled to life and drew their weapons. Two clattered to meet the drake with admirable speed and readiness.

The animal immediately overwhelmed one of the templars, claws and teeth tearing into the metal while the man struggled and thrashed. The other templar lifted his blade to strike and Anders made him stagger with a stone fist to the helmet.

Surprise only got them so far. More templars streamed in. The drake was soon surrounded and taking hits that cracked through its scales and oozed reptilian blood. Anders tried to fend them off, but they were trained mage hunters, resistant to his attacks. A few turned toward him, one having the audacity to dispel his protections and enhancements.

The largest stomped toward the mage, shield raised and mace swinging. He didn't get close, though, before Hawke blurred into sight and buried both blades into chinks in his armour.

Nearby templars took notice, moved to attack, and were thrown back by a combustion grenade. Another group were stunned by a miasma flask.

"Go!" Hawke snapped at the mage before pouncing on a dazed woman.

Anders ran. He slid past the wounded drake toward the back of the hall. Most of the sisters shied away. One fierce-looking mother brandished her staff at him, but he got lucky and managed to paralyze her before she could ready an attack.

He got to the door to the chantry catacombs, his lungs burning from the exertion. He drew more and more from the Fade and, when he tried the latch, he thought he could see through his own hand.

It was locked. The mage sagged against the door.

Then Hawke was there, brushing him aside and doing something to the lock.

The drake released a long, rattling roar that echoed through the hall and slowly collapsed. It was followed by the pounding of many armoured feet.

Anders cast a glyph of paralysis in the path of the oncoming templars, but most of them barely noticed. They were too strong, too well-defended. Without Fenris, Hawke and Anders were vulnerable to the chantry's defenders.

"Hah!" Hawke got the door open, shoved Anders through, crowded after ward, and lobbed another grenade into the clump of templars before he slammed the door shut. "That won't hold for long," he said, urging Anders onward. "Go, go!"

They ran. Rather, Hawke ran and Anders did his best not to resist the Viscount's strong pull. The passages were colder than Anders remembered. The book was warm under his arm, though, nearly burning.

After two floors, they heard the splintering of the door and the cacophony of footsteps and voices. After four floors, the torches stopped. They didn't need one, though, with the glare of the Fade that Anders emitted.

Again, the strange and eerie carvings around the gaping maws of the tombs seemed to come alive. This time, though, instead of merely slithering in the corners of their eyes, they made a rasping, hissing noise and writhed together under a direct gaze. Tiny claws and tiny, toothy mouths opened and closed in Anders' blue light. Blank orbs stared at the passing men and the grimoire.

They reached the round room ringed in broken sarcophagi. Hawke went to find the switch and Anders breathed heavily in the doorway, leaning on his staff. He had been too slow. Hawke was angry and the templars were nearly upon them, their metal boots ringing on the stone only one floor away.

The chamber trembled and roared. Dust filled the air and mortar showered down. Orange torchlight appeared at the end of the passage.

"Come on!" Hawke leapt across the gap widening in the floor, snatched the mage up and descended the still-moving stairs. The entire world became a shaking, choking place, dark, with hard armour digging into his stomach, his staff wrenching his elbow whenever its base struck a stone wall. The book throbbed against his chest.

They reached the bottom moments before the stairs finished moving. Hawke practically threw Anders behind the book stand.

"Do it," he urged. "Quickly!" Then he drew his daggers and faced the stairs.

Anders, hunched over the pain in his bruised abdomen, hurriedly flipped through the grimoire's pages. The spell he wanted took up the majority of the book. He had spoken much of it already, in preparation, binding the magic to himself, to his will. Now it just awaited the last few words, the power, the release.

The targets.

He reached out, with his mind, with the Fade, to the workshop around him. The blue glow he held within expanded, pushing away the dust and the darkness, until he was surrounded by gleaming metal, glass, fluids, ichors. In the bright light, he saw the eyes of desiccated, long-dead creatures watching him, waiting for him, from rusted cages. Fires roared up in the pits around the edges of the great room. Ancient devices creaked, ground away the dirt of millenia, and spun, faster and faster, until the chamber hummed with it.

The air became electric, the taste metallic. Anders' hair and feathers lifted and curled. The pages of the grimoire rippled and the lettering oozed. The mage heard far-off screaming from thousands of voices in a distant past, all of them in immense agony as their lives were bound to the cursed book.

Above him, around him, for miles and miles, bodies waited.

The last words were complex, difficult, painful. Anders opened his mouth, pushed the breath through, and a voice that was not his own spoke them.

Vengeance, enraged and venomous, unstoppable, he tore the frightened words off of the page and spat them out. There, they coiled in the electrified air like eels, swimming, hunting, before swarming away, bleeding into the stone and earth.

Anders sank to his knees. The screaming was louder, joined by other cries, terrible shrieks from the dead things in the cages, now rattling the bars and demanding freedom, battle cries from Hawke and the templars.

And, finally, the earth itself cried out as the expansive Nevarran Necropolis shifted and groaned and its sleeping occupants woke to the call of their new master.

Nearby, the templars cursed and fought with great vigour, but it was all for nought. From the sarcophagi in the chamber above came the floating figures of bygone Tevinter magisters. Though they had lost their flesh, the magic was rebuilding them already. Their skeletons had assembled and trailed tattered material like webbing. Fiendish awareness glowed red in the deep recesses of their skulls.

Silently, they moved behind the templars and lay their frigid fingers on sweaty cheeks and brows. The templars gasped, some thrashed, but they all died. They were drained, they fell as dust to the cold stone floor.

The Revenants, now robust, robed in magic, crowned in power, armed with fear, they surrounded Hawke. The dead beasts screamed. The Revenants went down, down to one knee, and lowered their crowned heads to the Viscount.


	23. Chapter 23

In the dark, in the deep, sometimes we find the greatest comfort.

This chapter was like scotch tape on my broken heart.

Also, pigeons.

**Disclaimer:** I promise I'll give them back when I'm done!

**Playlist Recommendation:  
**Johnny Cash – Ain't No Grave  
Sound Garden – Rusty Cage (Johnny Cash also does an amazing cover)

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty-three**

Waking was a strange experience, considering that Fenris hadn't expected to open his eyes again. He was on a bed in a small room, staring up at a rough, stone ceiling. The air was humid and smelled of earth. He was cold, though there was a blanket on him and a small brazier glowing near his feet. He felt empty. There were thoughts and emotions under the surface, but he was too tired to contemplate them. He rolled over, pulled the blanket up to cover his bare shoulders, and closed his eyes again, tightly.

There was a jingle of leather and metal, followed by a sigh. "I know you are awake, dog," Zevran said, voice deceptively light, his accent clipping the words and giving them a pleasant, staccato rhythm. "And I am tired of watching you. Get up."

"Why?" Fenris croaked without looking up. It was a legitimate question, he thought.

"Revenge. Because we got word that Hawke raised an army of the dead. Because you have been asleep for three days and breakfast is ready."

That last answer finally broke through the exhausted gloom shrouding the warrior. He was hungry, he realized. Very hungry. Hawke's presence no longer stood between Fenris and the sensations of his body. He was hungry, stiff, in pain at his neck and shoulders, and he needed a privy.

_Hawke isn't here any more_, came the next flash of insight. _I'm alone._This came with a mingling of relief, anger, and no little panic and sadness, similar to when he first escaped Danarius. After living without a will of his own, how would he cope?

The dark elf finally moved to sit up and slowly stretch his legs out from under the blanket, hissing when his bare feet touched the cold, damp floor. Then, supporting himself on trembling arms, he glared up through dishevelled white bangs at Zevran where the elf lounged sideways in a chair by the door. "I'm naked," he growled.

"Mhmm," Zevran hummed to his fingernails. With delicate precision, he pared them with a dagger the length of his forearm.

"Why?"

"Comfort. Yours and anyone who does not like the thought of you concealing weapons." He flashed a smirk at the dark elf. "I found only one weapon, dog, but I did not think you would like to be disarmed in that fashion."

Fenris' skin crawled. He was in no condition to make threats, but that didn't stop him. "I won't be touched like that again," he spat. "By anyone. Do it again and I'll send you to join your Warden."

Zevran stopped trimming and stared at the dark elf flatly, his thoughts imperceptible on his lightly tanned face. Then he smirked, very slowly. "That's more like it," he said.

Fenris blinked, his anger dissolving in his surprise.

"The Warden told me about you while you travelled," the assassin continued. As he spoke, he righted himself in his chair and replaced dagger and gloves. "He sent messages through the Circle... and Alistair." He rolled warm hazel eyes. "He got so much amusement turning the King into his messenger. But I digress. He was fond of you. Said you were as loyal as a mabari and ten times as fierce."

The irritation returned and the Tevinter scowled.

Zevran held up pacifying hands. "That is a compliment. From him, anyway. Everyone calls you the "Black Dog" of Kirkwall, but in Ferelden that would be an honourable title." The assassin shook back his blond hair and levelled an unusually serious look at the warrior. "He said you were unstoppable. Everyone has a weakness, though. Just so happens yours is Hawke and ancient Tevinter technology." He shrugged. "So you become a mindless drone. But now you are free and you can still make threats. This is good. You aren't as beaten as I thought."

Fenris crossed his arms over his bare chest and glowered. He was too tired to think of an appropriately scathing response that didn't involve violence.

"You really have nothing to be ashamed of," Zevran went on with a leer. "You are a handsome elf." After a considering pause, he laughed. "All right, before your glare pierces me completely, I'll let you dress and we'll go for breakfast, yes?"

The assassin smoothly rose, took up a bundle of black spirit hide from the side table near him, and swaggered to the bed. He handed it over to Fenris, but not before letting his gaze rove over the dark elf's bare torso and the thin cursive of lyrium glowing ruddy in the brazier's faint light.

"I'll enjoy it while I can," he explained when Fenris snatched his clothing back.

Fenris fumed and nearly flushed from the other elf's attention. Demanding that the assassin turn away, though, would probably only make things worse, so he angrily threw off the blanket and, with jerky motions, dressed.

"My armour?" he prompted when his black trousers and sleeveless jerkin were in place. "My sword?"

"Your red blade did not make it, my friend," Zevran explained. "Besides, Alistair does not want you armed or armoured. Not until he has you in hand." His expression turned thoughtfully lecherous at the phrasing.

"Ugh, you're worse than Anders." Fenris would have complained more, but mentioning Anders made the breath clot in his throat. He also couldn't blame the Fereldan king for his concern; Fenris had demonstrated well enough how many men he could cut down.

"Ah, I will take that as the greatest flattery. You are too kind." The door swung open at the assassin's touch. "Shall we?"

They padded through cold, torchlit halls, both of them nearly silent. Fenris found he missed the clumsy step of a human at his side and he had to shake his head to dismiss the thought. He tried to distract himself with his surroundings and it didn't take him long to realize that they were underground.

"A thaig?" he guessed, dredging the word from memory.

"Yes," Zevran replied amiably. "Morrigan's home, to be specific. I could not show it to you on a map, though. She is the only one who knows where it is."

"How did you get here?"

"I walked, of course." The Antivan elf slanted an amused glance at his companion. "Through a mirror. Asking myself, the entire time, is this truly how I want to die?"

"This Morrigan commands the Eluvian, then?" Fenris asked with some distaste. From what he'd seen and heard, the cursed mirrors should all be ground into dust and fed to nugs.

"As well as anyone. She got your leash off, anyway."

"Yes." Fenris rubbed his sore neck reflexively and felt the rough scabbing where the enchanted metal had seared his skin.

They came to a chamber where the air was warm and thick with the scent of roasting fowl and baking bread. Fenris' stomach released a yowl like a wild cat and Zevran chuckled.

The centre of the room was occupied by a large, round stone table ringed with heavy chairs. On the other side of the table, the golem Fenris had seen before, the memory twisted by pain and anger, straightened and regarded the elves with unblinking white eyes. "Finally," it said. In its large hands, each of them bright with orange crystals, it held a battered metal tray. On the tray were a chipped tea pot and a mismatched collection of fine ceramic cups. "The painted elf must have found something better to do than bringing our guest to breakfast."

"The painted elf had to wait for our guest to wake up."

"That's what a control rod is for."

Zevran erupted into raucous laughter. The golem stared at him. Fenris stared as well, a frown twitching his dark brows.

"I don't see what's so funny," the golem said to Fenris. "A control rod woke me."

"It is a, uh, squishy joke," Zevran managed around his snickers, wiping a tear from one eye. "Oh, Shale, I would not do without you, my stony friend." He gestured between golem and dark elf. "Shale, may I introduce Fenris? Fenris, this is Shale Pigeonbane, warrior and chef."

"Pigeonbane?" Fenris repeated.

"Nasty things," Shale said, somehow imbuing its inhuman voice with tones of disgust. "Wretched, flying things that sit on your head and perform their filthy biological functions." As it ranted, the orange crystals of its arms and the white crystals covering its broad shoulders started to glow.

"What of breakfast?" Zevran interrupted delicately. "You've been waiting?"

"Yes. I had to reheat your tea seven times. Consume it before it gets cold again."

Zevran flashed a grin at Fenris and led the dark elf to the table. The golem finished laying out the tea pot and cups, and then stomped away toward a doorway that released bright red light and waves of heat.

Zevran poured tea for them both, sniffed it, drank, and made a face. "It will not kill you," he assured Fenris. "Just... strain it through your teeth. I think Shale used beetles this time. Your piss might glow for a while." He nodded toward the other door and added in a low voice, "Ask for the salt first. If you taste it and then ask, Shale will think you do not like the food. Then we will be weeks in the Deep Roads getting her to come back out."

Fenris nodded uncertainly.

"And you _will_ need the salt."

As it turned out, Zevran's warnings were unnecessary. Fenris was hungry enough that the strange items Shale offered went down without the elf really tasting them. Granted, the bread was hard, chewy and had to be peeled out of a charcoal crust; the gravy was watery and spiced with some kind of blue lichen; and the thin meat of the roasted fowl tasted peculiar.

"What is this enchanting flavour?" Zevran asked, holding up a small bird wing dripping with grease.

"The bodies of my enemy should provide sustenance for my friends," was Shale's deadpan response. The golem had watched them eat with unnerving intensity.

"Ah," Zevran said, dropping the wing to his plate. "I think I am full."

"I'll have another," Fenris said, pushing his plate, littered with the corpses of Shale's arch-nemeses, toward the golem.

"Splendid," Shale said. "Feeding it is far better than squishing it. I am glad I did not meet it in battle." The golem collected Fenris' plate and stomped away again.

"It was a close thing," the assassin confided to the dark elf. He leaned his chair back on its creaky wooden legs and toyed with his tea cup. "Alistair had five different strategies for ridding the world of you."

"If your assassination didn't work, he would set a golem on me?" Fenris asked with dark amusement. "Anders would tear Shale apart." From the looks of it, Anders was probably the only person who could.

"That is why Shale was the _second_ plan." Zevran shrugged eloquently. "Besides, we knew Hawke sent you out alone."

Fenris didn't want to think about it, didn't want to remember watching his own dreadful deeds. "What will Alistair do now?" he asked instead.

"We will know that once he has gotten what he wants from you."

It was difficult not to tense and lash out at the assassin's unfortunate choice of words. Fenris had spent too long as property, a weapon, a tool. He was so sick of it, so tired.

_What choice do I have? _The thought was not a pleasant one, because he could come up with no other options. He must submit to them. He was in their power. And after that, if there was an after, he needed Alistair's help to... to do what? _What do I do now?_

He picked at a crack in the stone table as he thought. Who was he, really? Could he be anything without Hawke's will to direct him? Even long ago, in Kirkwall, with the fake Danarius' blood drying on his knuckles, his life yawning wide before him, he had turned to Hawke for direction. Then, with Hawke torn from him, he had turned to Anders and the Warden; one a rival and one a perfect stranger.

But now? He was alone. As alone as he had been when he first left Danarius. Alone and afraid, always an escaped slave.

Somehow, Shale, despite the constant grinding of its stone joints, managed to sneak up on the exhausted dark elf. Fenris jumped as a plate of roast pigeon dropped in front of him. "I hope that it enjoys," the golem said.

"My thanks," Fenris mumbled, though his appetite had fled. He managed to force down a few mouthfuls, if only to appease the golem, before he pushed away from the table. "What now?" he asked Zevran dully.

The assassin stared at him, his expression mildly concerned, a faint furrow between his fine blond brows. "Morrigan wants to talk to you before we go to Alistair."

"Ah." Fenris pulled himself together and stood. "I'm ready."

"Good." Zevran turned his hazel gaze to Shale. "Thank you for another culinary masterpiece, my friend."

"The painted elf is welcome. The lyrium elf more so."

Zevran shook his head as they departed. "She likes you," he murmured after they had exited the room.

"She?"

"Shale was once a female dwarf, a volunteer to become a golem." He frowned, his attention flickering over Fenris' down-turned face. "Are you ill? You do not look well. Was it the pigeon?"

Fenris had been reminded of Tenka, Anders' lady of the stone, and it hurt. Without Hawke's influence, these emotions were sharp, hard, uncomfortable. They turned his stomach into a ball of serpents. "No," he said. "I'm fine."

"Morrigan does not like people throwing up in her study." He frowned. "Especially me."

Morrigan's study was another large chamber, nearly a cavern, full of shelves, tables, work stations, arcane circles, sparkly items, and a menagerie of dark beasts, chittering and hissing, trapped in cages near the shadowed ceiling. In the centre of the mess was a cleared, raised area bearing the Eluvian. On the cracked stone floor, Fenris' keen eye picked out the bits of melted silver that had once been his collar.

The mage herself was nowhere to be seen. There was, however, a large, furry greenish-black spider skittering over the debris, delicately avoiding anything fragile. Chasing it was a laughing, red-haired boy hurling bits of fire.

"You may want to stand back," Zevran advised his companion. "Jo's aim is good, but begs improvement."

Not a moment after he spoke, one of the boy's fireballs struck a pile of books. Before it had a chance to do more than smoulder on the damp leather, the spider spat a gob of silk on it, effectively putting it out and making a big mess.

The spider turned and dashed rapidly toward the boy. The child shrieked.

Fenris tensed, some ancient instinct for protecting children, even mage children, nearly overcoming his fatigue and gloom.

"Easy," Zevran murmured, laying a hand on Fenris' arm.

"Don't touch me," Fenris growled. His skin shivered violently, unpleasantly, under the other elf's palm.

"Then do not attack your hostess." The assassin, not easily cowed, gave Fenris' wiry bicep a warning squeeze. "She might send you back to Hawke." He lifted his eyebrows in the direction of the spider and boy.

The boy's shriek dissolved into giggles as the spider lifted him in its two front legs and started wrapping him in silk, rolling him over and over. When the boy was covered from neck to toe, the spider was engulfed in a cloud of smoke. It reappeared as the woman. The mage, Morrigan.

"Mages," Fenris scoffed with distaste.

"Tell me about it." Zevran patted the other elf's shoulder and led the way into the room. "Morrigan, my dear, you have captured a fierce creature."

Morrigan looked up at their approach and hefted the squirming child by a length of silk. "A fierce creature who forgets the importance of books."

"It was only an almanac," the child complained. "An _Orlesian_ almanac, at that." His expression, or what could be seen of it as he spun in a slow circle, was something of a sly pout. Hidden in a puff of frizzy red hair, he looked to be a fair and pretty child with large, pale grey eyes. "Uncle Zev, could you cut me down, please? You don't like Orlesians."

"They have their place," Zevran replied neutrally.

"At the end of your dagger!" he crowed.

Fenris got the impression that this was a common interaction. He stood well back, arms folded, immensely uncomfortable with the quasi-domestic scene.

"Two weeks," Morrigan said dryly. "Look at what you've turned my son into."

"Give me two more and we will give him a taste for brandy and blood."

"Don't you dare!" The mage clasped her son to her white chest.

"Yay!" the boy cried happily toward the back of the room. "Brandy and blood!"

Zevran glanced at Fenris. "I love children."

"I find that disturbing," the Tevinter replied.

"Mother, there's another elf in our study," Jo informed the mage when he slowly spun back to the front. "Did you tell Uncle Zevran that he could bring strange men home?"

Zevran laughed. Morrigan and Fenris appeared equally unamused.

"Fenris is our guest," Morrigan said, thin dark brow twitching. "Be polite, son."

"Hello, Fenris," said the upside-down child, looking up at him guilelessly. Even inverted, there was something familiar in his face. An elven cast, perhaps. "My name is Jo and you have magic under your skin."

"Hello," Fenris greeted him flatly. "Yes, I do."

"Can I touch it?"

"No."

Jo craned his head to look up at his mother. "Was I polite?" He frowned. "I don't think Fenris is polite. My nose is itchy, mother."

Morrigan sighed, set her son on his feet, and looked to Zevran. "Would you do the honours?"

"Nothing would please me more. Though this is not usually how I cut silk off of a pretty boy." The assassin pulled a dagger nearly as wicked as his smile and advanced on the giggling child.

The adult mage shook her head and regarded Fenris. Her expression of exasperated amusement quickly changed to one of keen speculation. "You look well. It's not every man who can survive that form of bondage."

"I haven't decided," Fenris replied, "if I've survived or not."

Morrigan nodded. "I know little of it myself. I have questions for you to answer, once you're able. I've worked with the Eluvian for seven years and merely scratched the surface."

"You've gotten further than most," Fenris observed. "In my experience, most Eluvians lead to Blight, demonic possession, or the creation of a nearly invincible warlord."

"This one leads to Uncle Zev being sick on the floor," Jo chimed in.

"Doesn't Shale need you in the kitchen, boy?" Zevran opined sourly. Kneeling, he tugged the last bit of silk from the bottom of the child's baggy yellow tunic and tossed it over his shoulder. Beneath the silk, Jo's elven ancestry was more obvious in his slim stature, long face and fair colouring. His grey eyes were huge as he looked at Zevran.

"Shale made me leave when I brought the pigeons back to life," he informed him.

"What have I told you about raising the dead?" Morrigan demanded.

"Um..." Jo scratched his messy red hair, and looked at the floor. "Never in the kitchen?" he whispered.

"And never without supervision," her mother snapped. "I swear, child, one day you're going to wake the old dwarves and they will _not_ be happy. Now, tidy up these books and feed the gremlins. I need to talk to our guest."

"Yes, mother."

"Come here," Morrigan said to Fenris and led him to an area of the large room full of overstuffed chairs. She folded herself elegantly into one, skirt clicking and clattering around her tall boots, and waited for Fenris and Zevran to do the same. "We have about thirteen minutes before the boy is done. Before that, I want you to tell me how Jo's father died."

Fenris startled. "Father?"

"The Warden," Zevran interjected. Lines creased his face as his expression went sour, his eyes hooded.

"What?" Fenris looked between Morrigan and Zevran, confused. "Is this a Fereldan thing?" He couldn't imagine the wandering Warden as a father figure.

Zevran snorted, but there was no true humour in it. "It is the love between a man, a woman, and an archdemon."

"Zevran," Morrigan interrupted sternly.

The assassin's glare was brief, but dangerous. There was obviously some bitterness buried here, some old blood. Fenris watched Zevran school his features back into the usual easy smirk, though it was still imperfect when he turned to the Tevinter. "Tell us what happened, dog. All of it."

"It began about six months ago," Fenris started haltingly. It felt like longer, years or a lifetime. The memories were jumbled together, the events of Kirkwall nudging against the long journey, bleeding into his enslavement to Hawke's voracious evil. Before Danarius' intervention, it had been a different time. Fenris could barely remember the feelings of comfort, security, excitement and love. Now he just felt tired and old. Empty. "I was travelling with Hawke and we were attacked..."

/.\./.\

It took hours to tell Morrigan and Zevran all that had transpired. They often had to prompt him to go back and fill in gaps, as it was difficult for him piece it all together in a linear fashion, but they eventually got him through the entire story. At least the parts that didn't involve the details of the relationship between himself and Anders.

Periodically, Shale would interrupt with a meal, or Jo would make a sneaky attempt to slither over the arm of Fenris' chair and stroke his tattoos. After the boy's third attempt, Zevran finally sighed and dragged him away. For all that he was a libidinous and deadly assassin, the blond elf seemed fond of childcare. He spent some time teaching Jo about his favourite poisons while Morrigan grilled Fenris for more information about the Eluvian and the nature of the changes in Hawke and himself.

"He misses the Warden," Morrigan commented at one point, observing Fenris watching the assassin and the boy. Her gaze was very cool as she stared at the Tevinter over a cup of tea. She seemed older than she looked, generations older. "When I told him that the Warden's life had vanished, he didn't believe me. Not until Hawke made his move. After that, we confined him until he would see reason again. He would have challenged Hawke directly, but Alistair hired him to kill you first."

"Wise," Fenris admitted. "Hawke has no remarkable abilities of his own, but no one will get close enough to strike him." He spread his arms, displaying himself and his enhancements. "I am his lesser guardian, mage. Greater challenges await."

"And we have little time to meet that challenge," Morrigan said. "Hawke's undead army has nearly crushed Nevarra."

Fenris snorted. "He has an undead army?" He rubbed his forehead, trying to smooth away the dull throb of memory. "I should have known..." There were still thoughts and memories in his head that weren't his own, echoes from Hawke. Among them were the disjointed, sometimes nonsensical plans for keeping Nevarra and the Imperium occupied, without destroying them completely. His intent had been a distraction. A distraction and nothing more!

_And what could you have done with that knowledge?_ he wondered. _Nothing._

"The Chantry in Orlais says that Hawke is a fake god," Morrigan continued. "They're calling for another Exalted March. The Grey Wardens, on the other side, say that Hawke is like another Blight. Which makes a certain amount of sense. I suppose. Much of what Hawke _is_ came from the Eluvian and, with its power, he might even challenge the Maker."

"He does not have an Eluvian," Fenris said.

She gazed upon him. "Yet."

The dark elf's blood chilled. When Jo shrieked, he jumped and twisted to look. The child, though, was harmlessly gambolling about Morrigan's workshop, playing some game or other with Zevran.

Morrigan set her cup aside and watched her son as she went on. "Thedas sits at a crossroads. Hawke has the potential to create an empire that will dwarf the Imperium. If we wait much longer, he will be invincible, unstoppable. We must strike now."

Fenris tried to imagine striking Hawke and winced at the thought. He closed his eyes and wished he could just sink into the darkness. He was so very tired.

"Alistair will be chewing his throne by now," Zevran interjected breathlessly, trotting up to the Tevinter and the mage. He had abandoned his dagger and sword to carry Jo on his shoulders.

"He chews it anyway," Morrigan replied distastefully. "When he isn't chewing his own leg like a fox in a trap." She nodded, though. "Very well. We'll go to Denerim and relieve his fears. I'm sure the Banns want their king to stop sucking his thumb and crying."

"Can I come?" Jo asked, wrapping his thin white arms around Zevran's face.

Zevran went cross-eyed trying to frown at the boy and pried him off of his head, leaving his blond hair dishevelled

"You must guard the thaig," Morrigan told her son seriously. "Shale will stay with you, but she needs your help against magic, remember?"

Fenris couldn't tell if Morrigan was exaggerating or not. Despite his young age, Jo shared his mother's eyes, the stare that seemed to come from a hundred years of experience. It was unnerving. The Tevinter stared down at his dark, tattooed hands to avoid looking at the mages.

"Fine," Jo sighed, long-suffering.

Once the child was shooed away, with a hug from his mother and an affectionate hair ruffling from Zevran, Morrigan opened the Eluvian. From Fenris' point of view behind the mage, it seemed a disturbingly easy process. She spoke words and caressed the air. The mirror brightened with that peculiar black light. A rippling image of an expansive city appeared behind its glossy surface. Morrigan directed it to shift to a small, stone-walled room, empty but for a single wooden bucket.

"Alistair gave Morrigan a closet," Zevran explained in an undertone. "After two of the Banns fainted when she opened a doorway into the throne room."

"Of course," Fenris replied levelly.

Once she had gotten the location correct, Morrigan snapped another few hard words and the image firmed. She turned to the elves and gestured with a white hand. There was some tension in the lines of her face and her voice when she said, "After you. Zevran, use the bucket this time." She hid the strain of controlling the Eluvian very well.

"If you need to throw up, you must to wait your turn," Zevran grumbled. He eyed the mirror with distaste, took a deep breath and strode through. The image of the room rippled around his retreating figure.

Fenris didn't want to go near the mirror, Denerim, mages, or the king. He just wanted to sleep. There was no choice, though. He had an oath and little else. Mechanically, he forced himself forward and into the mirror's black embrace.

The transition was worse this time, without violence and confusion providing a distraction. There was a sensation of suffocation, a twisting, the feel of being simultaneously crushed and expanded. The image of Denerim distorted into a horrific black city of eerie spires and fungus-like growths pulsing under a dirty orange sky. Fenris stared upon it in horror and revulsion.

Then it spat him out. He landed hard on hands and knees and gasped air into his aching lungs. Nearby, Zevran had his head buried in the bucket and his retching nearly set Fenris off.

Morrigan strode out after them, as she would stride through any door, magical or otherwise, and waited for the two elves to recover.

"What was that city?" Fenris asked when he had control of his breath again. He got a leg under him, braced his weight on one arm, and looked up at the mage. Her wine red hood shadowed part of her face.

"You saw the black city?" she asked. "Interesting."

Zevran coughed up something, probably part of a pigeon, and then lay back, spread-eagle, groaning and muttering something in his own tongue. Fenris was quite certain they were some particularly colourful swears.

"Some say that is where the Maker dwelt before the Tevinters found their way in," the mage explained. "It was once a paradise."

"Ah, well, magisters do have that effect." Fenris gingerly pushed himself up and shook himself out. His bare palms stung where they had impacted the ground; he rubbed them against his thighs and wished he was wearing armour. Life was better when there was solid metal and leather between yourself and the world, instead of supple spirit hide with pieces missing for easy access.

"Come on, assassin," Morrigan prompted. "Alistair's nurses put him to bed early, remember?"

"Maker take you," Zevran moaned.

"But what would he do with me?" Morrigan smirked. She didn't wait for an answer before turning and opening the room's lone door.

They travelled through typical castle halls, stinking of must and humanity, lit with basic torches and the purple glow of dusk through tall, narrow windows. Fenris glanced only briefly through those windows, enough to see the thousands of lights from the thousands of homes. The dreary stone walls were interrupted here and there by tapestries depicting wars, women and dogs, and servants wandered hither and thither on their own errands, sliding silently and nervously past the trio.

At length, they arrived at a guarded door. Morrigan halted before the two guardsmen, one a tattooed elf and one a human, and declared, "Alistair will see me."

The guards glanced at each other and shifted uneasily. They looked to Morrigan, then to Fenris a step behind her, then to Zevran approaching at an unsteady trot. "His majesty is in talks with the Orlesians, witch," the elf, obviously the braver of the two, finally said. His red tattoos stood out on his face as he tried to stand up to her eerie gaze.

"Thank you," Zevran breathed and slumped against the wall. He flung up a gloved hand to cover his eyes. "It is like a hangover without the fun part," he complained faintly. "I need a bath and a virgin."

Morrigan cast a distinctly unimpressed glare back at the assassin. When she looked on the guards again, she pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I have two empty cages," she finally said lightly. "I just need the rabbits to fill them. And aren't you two adorable with your _shiny eyes_ and _twitchy noses_."

They swallowed heavily.

"I, uh, I'll see if the talks are nearly finished," the human said. He cleared his throat and backed toward the door.

"Maric," the elf hissed. His wide-eyed expression said, quite clearly, _Don't leave me._

"You do that," Morrigan said warmly. "I will wait. For now."

The human escaped. The elf stood nervously by, clenching and releasing his spear, his shiny eyes never leaving the mage. Fenris loosely hugged himself and rested against the wall opposite to Zevran, head bowed, too tired to care about what was going on around him. Belatedly, he wondered what he was going to say to Alistair, when he had been instrumental in bringing down one of the king's richest cities and killing his best friend. Nothing, probably.

The human returned, peeking around the door first as though he expected to find his partner spattered all over the walls or covered in fur. When he saw nothing of the kind, he emerged completely, offered a quick bow, and said, "His majesty commands you to wait in his chambers and... uh, that is..." He trailed off as the temperature of the air dropped below freezing. His breath puffed out in a little fog.

Morrigan lifted an eyebrow. "He 'commands me'?" she repeated. "Alistair?" Her laugh was like the tinkling of evil little bells. "That idiot can barely command his own pants."

"But he keeps his good liquor in his chambers," Zevran protested.

The mage rolled her eyes and started forward.

"We can't let you by," the elf squeaked, slanting his spear to block her path. After a delay, the human hurriedly did the same.

Morrigan sighed. She lifted a hand and started casting something.

"Ah!" the elf, his eyes squeezed shut, swung his spear down at the mage in a desperately loyal and foolish move.

Zevran, despite his Eluvian-induced handicap, was there to meet the spear with his dagger and deflect it to screech against the stone wall.

The human tried to do the same, but was about as effective. Fenris, growling and mostly working off of reflex, grabbed the human's gauntleted wrists in his bare hands and activated his lyrium. The man let out a shocked cry as his metal armour bent and dug into his flesh.

Morrigan finished her spell before the guards could do much else. They tumbled to the floor, deeply asleep.

"Nightmares?" Zevran suggested hopefully, sheathing his weapon.

"Working for Alistair is nightmare enough," the mage replied. She toed the human's wrist to reveal the imprints of Fenris' fingers. "Zevran, you may want to rethink your chances of assassinating a lyrium warrior."

The elf scoffed. "I would not let him get his hands on me. Well... Not unless he tied me up. Or bought me a drink. Or asked nicely." He winked at Fenris. There was some hint in his expression, though, that he may have been impressed.

Fenris shook out his hands and stretched his neck. Exhaustion sucked at him, making him feel heavy. The lyrium could be unforgiving.

Without further conversation, Morrigan stepped over the guards and opened the door.

They entered into a council chamber of sorts, similar to Hawke's, but with more dogs on the walls and less art from other nations. Fenris had seen Alistair only once before and the blond Grey Warden king hadn't changed much. He sat at the head of a long table, dressed in royal Fereldan finery, crowned with a simple gold circlet. At his side were, presumably, his advisory council. They were framed by a grandiose fireplace, though only the tiniest of fires burned in the summer evening. At the other end of the long table sat a group of heavily perfumed Orlesians like a bouquet of angry flowers.

The occupants broke off their heated discussion and turned at the intrusion.

"Morrigan," Alistair started, "I told you-"

One of the Orlesians, barely more than a youth, jumped and howled, "The Black Dog!" He raised a shaking hand to point at Fenris. "It's the Black Dog of Kirkwall!"


	24. Chapter 24

**NOTICE: This chapter was revised Sept 19, 2012**

In which there is talking, plotting, forgiveness and Orlesians.

And now I really, really want a drink.

**Playlist Rec:**  
Deadmau5 - Raise Your Weapon

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty-four**

The Orlesians scrambled to their feet, chairs clattering backward and cloaks flying as they unsheathed their weapons. The Fereldans—Alistair, his council and his guards—did the same, though it was unclear if they were going to attack the Orlesians or Fenris.

Zevran muttered more Antivan curses and sidled in front of the Tevinter, his dagger and longsword in hand.

Morrigan stood impassively. "Are you done?" she asked when the noise had died down. "The adults have important business to discuss."

"That man is a murderer!" exclaimed the Orlesians' white-haired and saffron-robed head female, pointing with her thin blade.

"It is simply a business, serah," Zevran laughed modestly. "I would not call myself a _murderer_."

"Not you," the Orlesian snapped. "Him!"

Fenris stared at the woman unflinchingly. He bore no weapon and no armour. If this group chose to attack him now, he would undoubtedly fall before them. At this moment, he couldn't say that would be a bad thing.

"They speak the truth," one of Alistair's men said. He gestured with a mace. "I saw it! I saw the Black Dog tear through an entire legion. He slaughtered them all with that red sword..." He broke off and shuddered. "Those were my friends. My _brothers_."

"The Black Dog you speak of is no more," Morrigan said quietly. "Hawke's general is no more. Before you stands a man and only a man. Through Tevinter magic, the Viscount held him as a slave. He is not responsible for the deaths of your comrades... Hawke is."

"That's not good enough," snarled the Fereldan squire.

"We do not believe you!" exclaimed the Orlesian. "It is a trick! A trick to infiltrate your palace, Alistair!"

"This is going well," Zevran commented over his shoulder. Then, "H-hey!"

_Enough_. He was so tired. So tired of everything, of violence and loneliness, fear and pain, and the fleeting moments of joy and peace that taunted him from memory. He was born a slave, he lived as a slave, but he would die free.

Fenris paced slowly forward, aware of the warm stone underfoot, the suffocating atmosphere, the heaviness of limb and heart. He was exposed, vulnerable, alone. He passed through the space between the Fereldans and the Orlesians, to where Alistair stood, warily watching. One of his guards moved to intercept the elf, but the king gestured at him to fall back.

The Tevinter stopped. He sank down to his sore knees before the Fereldan king and lowered his head, not in supplication or obeisance, but to await the executioner's axe.

"It's a trick," hissed one of the Orlesians. "Kill him now!"

_Yes_, Fenris thought wistfully. He stared down at the stone, his own knees, the tops of Alistair's boots through a fringe of white hairs. _I am so tired._

"You need him," Morrigan warned.

"He killed the father of your child," Alistair replied. "Zevran, he killed your lover. My brother warden." His voice was thick. Rough with emotion, grief and anger and confusion.

"He has paid a greater penance than you can even imagine."

"He swore he would fight Hawke."

"He's a mad dog," the Orlesians insisted.

"No. He is the only way you can even touch the Viscount." Morrigan was hard, unrelenting. "Don't let your fear and arrogance blind you, Alistair."

"We will not ally ourselves to a weak king," the Orlesian declared. "How can we trust a man who allows this creature to live?"

"I... need to think this over," Alistair finally said. "Lady, lords, please return to your rooms. There will be, uh, a feast and entertainment awaiting you." He made an urgent gesture toward one of his councillors and the woman slipped out of the room.

The Orlesian drew herself up and flicked the tip of her blade at Fenris' kneeling figure. "If the dog is not dead by morning, we will leave."

Alistair sighed. "I'll keep that in mind," he promised.

The Orlesian hissed some choice words in her own language, followed by a very distinct, "Ignorant Fereldan cur." She snapped some orders at her own people and they grudgingly filed out.

There was a long moment of silence, interrupted only by Fereldan coughs and shifting about. Finally, Alistair said, "Get up, Fenris. Your neck tempts me." He sounded tired.

_No_, Fenris begged internally. _End it now. Please._ He did as Alistair bid him, though, and wearily stood. He stared dully at the king.

"And what say you?" the blond Fereldan asked. He was handsome, in the rough, unfinished way of human males, and the lines on his face spoke of smiles and a fit sense of humour. He had a strong figure, arms and shoulders well-defined under his royal doublet. He was a warlord in the best sense, a man who would protect his kingdom rather than allow the kingdom to protect him.

Those shoulders were bowed now, though, under a weight far greater than a sword and shield, and his expression was no little desperate when he looked to Fenris.

"From what I've seen, Orlesian females make terrible allies," Fenris offered.

Alistair's face went blank.

Zevran laughed.

"Nephew," interrupted one of Alistair's companions, a similarly well-dressed brunet male bearing a tidy beard and moustache. "Best kill him now lest he win our sympathies."

"We need the Orlesians," Alistair said, folding his muscular arms. He looked at Fenris sourly. "Your people nearly decimated our standing army."

"Not my people," Fenris corrected flatly. "I have no people."

"What Morrigan said is true, then?" The king glanced suspiciously toward the mage.

"Yes." The Tevinter paused thoughtfully. "And no."

"That... needs some explaining," Alistair prompted.

"I did not wish to kill your soldiers, but I am guilty." At the king's confused frown, Fenris added, "I'm the reason why Hawke is like this. If you want revenge, take it now." He gestured toward his unarmed, under-dressed figure.

Alistair blinked.

"Don't be so dramatic," Morrigan scoffed. "You're like a dog that's been kicked too often, his tail between his legs and hiding under the table."

Fenris tilted his head and scowled back at her.

"She has the right of it," Zevran agreed. "It wasn't your fault."

"Would one of you tell me what happened?" Alistair sighed, scrubbed a hand back through his short, bristly hair and promptly knocked his crown off. "Ah, flames," he swore and scrambled to catch it. When he was standing, crown back in place, he waved toward the table. "Everyone just sit down. I'm starving and can't think like this. Wes, call a servant to bring in supper."

"Food won't help him think," Morrigan commented. Zevran snickered again. The pair didn't hesitate to claim two of the chairs so recently abandoned by the Orlesians.

"You, too, Fenris," Alistair commanded.

Fenris frowned, but did as he was bid. He sat by Zevran, stretched out his long legs, folded his arms and brooded. This wasn't turning out how he could have wished. He didn't want the king's hospitality.

"This isn't going as I'd planned," Alistair said as he reseated himself at the head of the table, echoing Fenris' thoughts. He steepled his hands and contemplated the trio. "Morrigan, you shouldn't have paraded him before the Orlesians like that."

"The Orlesians have been prancing all over you," the mage responded and shook back her red hood. "Grow a spine."

"By refusing to kill the man who slaughtered my people?" The king lifted an eyebrow. "I don't see how that would help."

As they argued, the other Fereldans slowly took their places close to Alistair, giving the trio a wide berth. Servants filed in to light candles, set down dinnerware and tidy the mess left by the Orlesians. One kindhearted elf girl placed a goblet full of wine before Fenris and he grasped it almost desperately.

"By proving that Hawke's general is your ally," Morrigan corrected. "That you won him over."

"And have I won him over?" The king looked to Fenris again.

"I don't have have a choice," the Tevinter told his goblet.

"You aren't a slave anymore," Morrigan snapped. "You have a choice."

"I swore to Zevran-"

"A lot of people swear at Zevran."

Alistair lifted his hand. "Enough, enough. Just... tell me what happened." His frown brightened when a stiffly formal, elderly servant offered him a plate of bread and cheese.

"In brief, Hawke was exposed to an Eluvian and Fenris and Anders were enthralled to him." Morrigan waved a vague hand. "It's all very magical in nature. You wouldn't understand. The Tevinters created Hawke to help them rebuild their empire, but he's going to destroy them."

"That's good!" The king's voice was muffled around a mouthful of bread.

"And, in the process, Ferelden, Orlais, Antiva, Nevarra, the Anderfells, Par Vollen..."

"That's not so good."

"Right now, Hawke is fighting the Nevarrans in order to gain their artifacts." Morrigan toyed with her own meal with little interest, her pale grey gaze never leaving Alistair's face. "Once he has them, his strength will increase phenomenally."

"So we stop him before he gets them," Alistair finished. He rubbed his hands together briskly, as though the matter was settled, and then tore into the leg of some kind of animal.

"Or kill him now," Zevran interjected. He reached out and snagged a bottle from a passing servant, much to the young human's dismay. "I already claimed one of his generals; the Viscount himself will be easy."

"Anders would destroy you," Fenris interjected, low voiced. "If you could even get close enough. I imagine losing me made Hawke more vigilant."

"So what do we do?" Alistair demanded. "With the forces from Orlais and the Circles, we've been able to hold them off, but we can't send help to Nevarra. Our only option is a small strike, but you say striking Hawke directly is impossible?"

"That's correct." Fenris could already see, in his mind's eye, the many barriers, magical and physical, that Hawke would use to protect himself and his guardian.

"And he already raised an army from the Nevarran necropolis," Alistair groaned into his hands. "Why can't I raise the dead?" he asked his decimated meal. "Evil has it easy."

"You have the Grey Wardens," his uncle consoled him. "Most of them think Hawke is about to bring another Blight on Thedas. The Amaranthine commander stands with you."

"For what good that does us. There aren't enough of them to make much difference."

The discussion continued in that vein for some time. Fenris retreated into himself as he listened and ate what the servants set before him. Whether from the food, the wine, or just being around people who were comparatively normal, Fenris' gloom gradually lightened some small amount, like a fist around his chest relaxing minutely so he could breathe easier. He still couldn't think of what he should do or how, whether he would be better off helping these people or if he should become an oath breaker and run off into the wilderness before he hurt them even more. But he felt less like lying down and accepting fate and more like taking some action, whatever it might be.

It was like being trapped in a nightmare and slowly realizing that he had woken up.

The elf dropped his cutlery. Two of the humans and Zevran reacted to the sudden clatter, leaping up and drawing a weapon.

"You don't like the cheese soup?" Alistair asked, sounding offended.

"I have an idea." It was more than an idea. It was an epiphany, a flash of light in the darkness, an exciting tumble of experiences leading to a thought, a moment of clarity. "Anders."

"The abomination?" the king asked. "What of him?"

"Removing Anders would be like removing Hawke's arm."

"How do we do that?" Zevran asked mildly. "You said he is invulnerable."

"He nearly is," Fenris agreed. "Except in dreams."

Alistair scratched his chin. "You sound like you have more than an idea."

"There is a mage in Tevinter. A dream stalker, a somniari." Fenris didn't even want to spit out the title, but at this point he felt he had little choice. They were the worst of the mages, in his mind, able to strike a man when he was most vulnerable. In this case, though, he thought he could make an exception. "They are... assassins." He had trouble saying the word in relation to Anders, for all that the mage was barely alive anymore, anyway. It brought to mind images of Anders lying by Hawke and slipping silently away into death, with no option to protest or defend himself.

_A mercy killing_, the elf thought. His stomach clenched around the king's food. _Better than he deserves, to die without realizing what he has done._

_Or is that too good for him? Can you let him go like that? He has done so much harm, can you let him pass away so easily? So simply? _

_Don't you want to hurt him? For what he did to you?_

The others were watching him. Fenris toyed with his spoon and tried to come up with something to tell them, the seed of a plan he had come up with. _Revenge... Anders, can I hurt you any more than you've hurt yourself? _Part of him wanted to. He wanted to inflict every humiliation and every hurt on the mage that he had gone through himself. There was rage within him, buried beneath exhaustion and confusion, rage at Danarius, Anders, Hawke and the world that had created them.

It reminded him of his sister, that fool of a woman, betraying him to Danarius so long ago, just like everyone he trusted betrayed him. Hawke had prevented him from killing her before Fenris' anger could consume him.

_Revenge turns you into a slave_. The thought was small, unexpected. _And would make you no better than the abomination, so caught in dreams and ideals that it blinds you._

With physical effort, Fenris separated himself from that abyss of anger.

He glanced around at his companions, steeled himself, and continued. "If he takes me into Anders' mind, I will destroy the abomination myself." _Simple. Clean. Necessary._

"Is there no other option?" Alistair asked, mouth pulling down in a frown. "Anders is a Grey Warden. Surely, if he were freed as you were-"

"Then you would give him the opportunity to turn against you," Fenris snapped. He was back at the edge of rage. He forced his voice down, forced himself back to calmness. "Better to kill him than give him another chance."

"You've seen what he can do," Morrigan interjected. "And he is not enthralled as Fenris was. The Viscount's hold on him is different and I cannot guarantee that I could free him. I agree with Fenris."

The Fereldan king fell into uneasy silence and there were no other objections. _Do you see what you've done, mage?_ Fenris thought. _The world wants to put you down, like a mad dog._

Morrigan continued, her tone thoughtful, "I would like to meet this somniari. I've read much of walking through the dreams of another, but I've never tried it."

"Ugh, who would want _you_ in their dreams?" Alistair visibly shuddered.

"How do we find this somniari?" Zevran asked, tasting the word. "You say he is in the Imperium? There is an army between us and them."

Fenris shrugged. "What do I know of magic? I thought you just said the name and the mage appeared."

"That's more a demon than a mage," Alistair replied, a curl of amusement on his lip.

"It always worked with Anders."

"I may be able to find a spell of searching," Morrigan said thoughtfully. "Does this dream stalker have a name?"

"Feynriel." Fenris had to pull that name out of deep memory, too. He could barely remember the pale-haired, sallow-faced youth. Hawke had taken an unusual interest in Feynriel, despite Fenris' misgivings. The Tevinter elf had always blamed Anders for that one, for giving Hawke a reason to be concerned for some runaway mage-child, enough to subject them all to a mage's demon-haunted dreams. "A half-elf," he added. "Dalish and Antivan. Fled to the Imperium about three years ago to escape the Circle."

"Can you do it?" Alistair asked sombrely, looking to Morrigan.

"We shall see." Morrigan shrugged. Fenris caught more than one Fereldan staring at the movement of her smooth, snowy white skin. The Tevinter sneered; no wonder the mage made them so nervous. Half of them wanted to see more of her, little realizing that very same flesh could spontaneously grow dark hair and four additional limbs.

"When?" the king persisted.

"After I've returned home," the mage snapped, irritation at the questions obvious in her expression. "I cannot very well do anything from _here_."

"Fine." Alistair rolled his eyes. He looked to Fenris. "And what do you propose to do, elf?"

"I'm... uncertain. If we get Anders to sleep, Feynriel should be able to get me into Anders' dreams through the Fade." He shivered slightly at the thought of walking those hidden corridors of the mind, but refused to consider anyone doing it in his place. Anders was his responsibility. _And my right?_ he asked himself quietly. _No... I just need to make sure the deed is done. You can't trust the men who say they love you... How can you trust a Tevinter somniari?_

"You can't let him go alone," Alistair's uncle interjected. "Who's to say he's not lying? That he won't just return to his master?"

Fenris narrowed his gaze on the man.

"Oh, save your glare," the Fereldan said. "I'm still baffled that Alistair didn't remove your head when he had the chance."

"Teagan," Alistair chided. "There's been enough death."

"And what are you going to say when he turns on you and runs you through?"

"Um. '_Argh_,' probably."

Teagan sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alistair, some days..." He shook his head. "You're too trusting, nephew."

"I'm not going to live in fear all my life," the king protested. Then, glancing toward the end of the table, "Well, other than fear of Morrigan, but that's a different matter." The mage in question lifted a black eyebrow and he hurriedly looked away. "You're right, though. Fenris, you won't go alone."

Fenris shrugged. "I imagine Feynriel will be with me." _Unfortunately._

"That's not what I meant."

"I will go," Zevran offered. "After what I went through to get him, I will not let the Black Dog out of my sight."

"Is that why you stare at him so?" Morrigan asked slyly.

"Among many, many reasons," the assassin chortled. "You haven't seen him like I have-"

"Sending the assassin is nearly as bad!" Teagan protested over Zevran's cackling and nearly knocked over a crystal decanter in his enthusiasm. "You can't trust him, either! Don't you remember when he and the Warden snuck into your chambers and... and..."

"He's saved my skin enough that I would trust him with my life," Alistair argued, waving Teagan down. "Just, not, my... You know." He coloured slightly.

"Another mage, perhaps," Morrigan recommended. "In the Fade, willpower, intelligence and magic are more important than physical strength. Though I will refrain from the experience this time; you will need someone on the outside who knows more than how to use a pointy stick."

"You're so _mean_," Alistair complained. "Even if you are right. I'll get someone from the Circle. I'm sure the First Enchanter will have a recommendation. Someone we can trust." Here he sent a dirty look toward his uncle. Teagan just folded his arms, expression unimpressed.

"Surely not Wynne." Zevran pulled a face. "The Warden told me she's been on the brink of death since the blood mages took over the Tower. I don't want her to collapse and leave me stranded in a dream. Or break a hip."

"No, she's too important for the Circle, anyway. It'll be someone else." Alistair accepted a small, steaming cup from his valet and toyed with it. Fenris soon received his own, and found it full of a hot, dark, bittersweet liquid. "This will have to do, then," the king decided abruptly, nodding. "Fenris, you'll live. For now. For as long as you fight against Hawke. An enemy of an enemy is a friend, right?"

"He is as much a victim of the Viscount as the rest of us," Morrigan reminded him.

"He also swore it," Zevran added.

"I can answer for myself. I... am not eager to fall into Hawke's hands again." Fenris stared down at his own as he spoke. His fists seemed small without his gauntlets, small and stained with both lyrium and blood. He felt like a perpetrator, like he was ultimately guilty for Hawke's actions. He held his tongue on those thoughts, though, knowing that Zevran and Morrigan would simply abuse him into agreeing that he'd been victimized. "And... he has much to atone for. I..." Anders was one thing; the mage was barely human anymore, and had no Eluvian to excuse his atrocities. Could Fenris kill Hawke as well? Even after all that the man had done? Even if it was to put his beloved out of his misery, like a beast that went rabid? "I will fight him," was all he could manage.

Alistair nodded.

Teagan shook his head, though. "And what of the Orlesians?" he demanded. "Comtesse Bouchard wants your new friend's head. I still think we should give it to her."

The king groaned. "Why did you have to remind me?" he muttered. "We can't afford to lose them. Maybe we could... fake Fenris' death?" He looked to the Tevinter hopefully.

"How do you fake getting your head lopped off?" Zevran asked.

"You don't," Teagan answered shortly.

"What about a duel?" Alistair pondered. "Their champion against ours."

"That may have won your crown, but I doubt it would win their favour."

"It would give them a chance at satisfaction." The king leaned back and scrubbed his head again. When his circlet started to fall off, he simply removed it and tossed it onto the table. "Other than watching them ride away, I can think of no other option. We need Fenris."

_You are a weapon again_, the elf thought grimly. _Always._

"Who will fight, then?" Teagan asked. "We've lost enough men to this beast."

"I will," Zevran offered, leaning forward eagerly.

"No," Fenris interrupted. "No one will fight for me. I stand alone."

"Are you certain?" the assassin asked. "You are not exactly in peak condition, my friend."

"It's what I was made for," the Tevinter responded.

The Fereldans glanced amongst each other. Alistair looked troubled. "If you die, this plan against Hawke..."

"You would just need to do it without me." Fenris shrugged. "I've told you the name of the mage."

"Let him fight," Teagan said. "It's what the beast wants."

Fenris felt a hot wash of anger, followed by sickening guilt. _He has the truth of it_, he thought with painful self-recrimination.

Alistair sighed. "All right. Tomorrow then. I'll arrange it with Comtesse Bouchard."

"And I will find that spell." Morrigan pushed away from the table.

Zevran followed suit, Fenris at his side, but Teagan called out, "The general should stay here."

"Agreed," Alistair said. "Fenris, we'll keep you in an apartment here."

"Under watch," Teagan added.

Fenris' brows lifted slightly as he regarded the Fereldans. Did they realize that he could pass through solid doors?

"Then I stay as well." Zevran crossed his arms.

"Even better." Alistair waved a hand. "Though I don't know if that's for his protection or for my men."

The assassin leered. "For my own benefit, I assure you."

"Elves," Teagan grumbled.

/.\./.\

Alistair had a contingent of nervous soldiers, led by Teagan himself, take Fenris and Zevran to one of the castle towers. "Far from the Orlesians," Teagan told them sternly. "And Alistair."

"Not that far," Zevran said to Fenris. "If you need some air tonight, I will show you how to get to the royal suite." He traced an image in the air of walls and windows.

Teagan scowled. "If Alistair's underthings are in the fountain again tomorrow, I'll know who to blame."

"You may blame fate," Zevran offered. "Besides, that was the happiest day for the castle ladies, was it not?"

The Fereldan shook his head.

The elves had the tower to themselves, with a troop of soldiers at the bottom. The windows were barred, but the rooms themselves were very well-appointed. Teagan left them in the bottommost chamber, a sitting room with a cheery fire crackling in the fireplace, with a parting admonishment to stay away from the rest of the castle and keep out of trouble.

Zevran immediately crossed to the room's sideboard and exclaimed happily over the choice of drinks. "Alistair is as generous to his enemy as another man to a friend," he said conversationally as he poured two glass tumblers full of dark amber liquor. "This is the tower for honourable captives." He smiled and sauntered to the Tevinter elf. "Sit down, my friend, you look tense."

Fenris frowned, but took the offered drink and folded into one of the comfortable, paisley-upholstered chairs. His gaze settled on the fire. He wasn't tense. He just wanted to be alone.

Or he was afraid to be alone.

He didn't know if he should appreciate the assassin's presence, or if it was a reminder of what he had done. He didn't know if it was a distraction from his thoughts and memories, or if it was an aggravation; salt on a wound.

So he sat quietly and drank the sweet liquor. It sat like embers in his stomach, slowly warming the rest of his body.

When he had drained the first glass, Zevran brought him a second. Then a third. The fire's flicker became a slow dance. Or the tongues of a creature, speaking or singing. There was some meaning in it. Something beyond Fenris' grasp.

"Speak to me, Fenris," Zevran said after a time. The assassin lounged in the room's one divan, his weapons and armour abandoned in favour of plain leather trousers and a simple pendant, one leg stretched out and the other resting on the floor. It gave him an easy, inviting appearance, like a lightly tanned and smoothly muscled buffet.

Fenris kept his attention on the flames. "No," he replied.

"Then I will talk. I will tell you about the Warden. Maybe it will make you cry."

The Tevinter snorted softly. "Is that a threat or wishful thinking?" He finally rolled his head to regard the assassin. When he blinked, it was slow, like the rise and fall of the sun. "Are you so inconstant that you'd try to seduce your lover's killer?"

The Antivan went very still. "You did not kill him," he said after a moment, quietly. "I... want to know more. About his last days." He sounded pained, his voice getting rough and unsteady. He tossed back the last of his drink before he finished. "Would you deny me that?"

Abruptly, Fenris realized just how _good_ Zevran was at hiding his grief beneath his sleaze and arrogance. It was starting to show now, though, through cracks in the assassin's veneer, in his short, jerky movements, his knotted knuckles and the turn of his mouth. The Tevinter also recognized that Zevran's bravado was all that had kept Fenris himself moving forward; the sight of the blond elf's pain and loss struck him like a blow to the stomach, making him lose his breath. It was a reminder, not only of losing a friend, not only being guilty of that murder, but it was a reminder of Hawke. That Hawke was not just gone, but utterly destroyed and taking the rest of the world with him. If Zevran had shown this when Fenris first woke, it could have ruined them both.

"No," Fenris said again, in a low, gentle murmur. "I will not deny you that."

This time when he told his tale, he spoke only of the Warden. The man's selflessness and generosity, his welcoming humour that bonded Fenris and Anders, not only to the elf, but to each other. Zevran laughed when Fenris described the Warden's love for sarcophagi and loot, the ease with which he fought and gambled. Then, with great difficulty, Fenris told the assassin what he still had trouble admitting to himself, that the Warden had helped him through that first disturbing and somewhat frightening realization of his own feelings toward Anders. The recollection was painful, knowing what he had to do now, but speaking of it was strangely cleansing under the brandy's anaesthetic. _It happened_, his fogged mind admitted. _It happened, and now you decide what you will do._

"He was always very perceptive," Zevran agreed, pulling Fenris back to the topic of the Warden. The assassin smiled sadly toward the carpet. His posture had relaxed from practised seduction to something natural. "And blunt. And irritating." He sighed.

"And he would not back down," Fenris added.

"Not when he knew his friends were in need." The words came out thickly. The assassin suddenly stood and swept to the sideboard, snatching up Fenris' glass as he passed. When his back was to the Tevinter, Fenris noticed the elegant tattoos on the other elf's back. He traced them with his eyes, wondered if Dalish tattoos hurt as much as lyrium, if they left the skin as sensitive to touch.

They were already into the third bottle. Fenris had some vague recollection that he was going to be fighting for his life the next morning, but it didn't seem important enough to cease the flow of liquor and reminiscence. Besides, he fought for his life almost every morning, but how often did he get the chance to drink the Fereldan king's best liquor with the Antivan Crows' most infamous assassin?

Zevran shared some tales, then, that had Fenris laughing hard enough to spill his drink. The Warden had touched on some of them on similar nights in their travels, but Zevran gleefully filled in details that the Warden had gracefully omitted.

Finally, Fenris admitted, "He died to save Anders and me, and I... I struck him down. Again and again. I... am sorry." And he was. He was more sorry than he could express through words alone.

"As am I," Zevran replied solemnly. "Only that he failed, though. His purpose was... worthy. And he would forgive you, as I forgive you." He leaned forward a little unsteadily, elbow braced on his knee, and held out his glass. Fenris gently clinked his own against it. "To the Warden," Zevran said and added something in Antivan, something fluid, in a tone both sad and accepting, and drank.

"To the Warden," Fenris echoed and followed suit.

By this point, the fire was a low bed of embers, the light probably too dim for a human, and everything wore a reddish cloak. Shadows flocked around the two elves, but they were warm and secure. Fenris felt drowsy, loose, somehow free from the shackles of guilt and despair that had bound him for so long. He floated in this comfortable bower with no past clawing at his heels and no ominous future looming over him.

There was only Zevran, the elf's tanned skin sliding against his own as the assassin's arms went around him and his svelte figure wedged into the negligible space between Fenris and the padded arm of the chair. The brandy eased the discomfort of another's touch on his tattoos. Fenris relaxed into the embrace, allowing the other body to twine around his own, letting his own arm rest on a firm belly, a thigh slant over his own.

They coiled together in the small, warm space, heads together, breathing the same breath, brandy-flavoured sorrow wisping away in the night.


	25. Chapter 25

**NOTICE: This chapter was revised Sept 19, 2012**

In which Alistair shines and Fenris re-equips.

*squirms more* I... Have an unhealthy love of weaponry. Or something.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty-five**

Fenris startled awake at the sound of the tower door banging open. He was struck, immediately, by the blades of light from the window and an immense throbbing in his head. A moment later, his stomach tried to rise up in acidic rebellion. A moment after that, he remembered where he was, what he had to do, and who was about to barge in.

He tried to slither away from Zevran, but the assassin clung onto him. "Just a little longer," Zevran muttered hoarsely.

There was no graceful way to extricate himself. Fenris probably exerted more strength than necessary to tear Zevran's arms away and clambered up, discovering belatedly that one of his legs, from hip to floor, was numb from the assassin's weight.

When Teagan and three Fereldan guards entered the room, Fenris was standing unsteadily by the chair, hand braced on the back and waiting for the room to stop spinning. Zevran was curled into a miserable ball, leather-sheathed legs at his chest, arm crooked over his face to block out the light.

"Well," Teagan said loudly, observing the empty bottles and the ragged elves. "This should make things easier for the Orlesians."

Fenris winced and pressed a palm to his brow.

The Bann continued vindictively, "Get up! The king awaits. Time for breakfast and _mortal combat!_"

"I will stab you with a fork," Zevran moaned, muffled, and curled even tighter.

"Lovely," Teagan replied happily. "You're going to get a reputation for running around and forking people, elf."

He clapped vigorously and both elves hissed. Two uneasy servants dragged in a tray of dishes that clattered more noisily than it should have, each clink like a tiny knife in Fenris' temples, and the scent of spiced meat and fresh bread assaulted Fenris' nose.

_Maker, help me._

The Maker had no mercy for Fenris' ilk. The elf was promptly sick in a decorative bronze vase.

Bann Teagan was unrelenting. He gave the elves a mere few minutes to force food and drink down and prepare for battle. Zevran generously doused Fenris with cold water, leaving the Tevinter shivering, but slightly more awake. The Fereldan and his guards then escorted their unsteady captive deeper into the bulk of the castle, and out into a bright courtyard.

Fenris' skull felt like it was about to crack open. He squinted and tried to shield his eyes. The morning sunlight streamed in from the east and reflected off of windows and the bright figures of nearly a hundred Fereldan and Orlesian nobles. His stomach lurched and the dusty ground under his feet slanted and rolled; it was worse than wearing shoes.

The courtyard looked like a training field. Around the outside ran a shaded gallery, where the majority of the aristocratic audience enjoyed the morning's entertainments. Many were seated in elaborate folding chairs and accompanied by their own minstrels, adding to the general din. Dummies and straw bales were shoved to one side and there were racks of weapons against the walls. The ground had been pounded to yellow dirt by many years of booted heels.

Alistair waited in the centre of the field with his councillors, the Orlesian Comtesse Bouchard, and a handful of soldiers. The king wore light armour of his own; part ceremonial, part functional. When he spotted Teagan and Fenris, he immediately and briskly strode over. His circlet and mabari-influenced shoulder guards glinted in the light, making Fenris wince and avert his eyes.

"Are you ready?" the king asked urgently.

Teagan snorted.

"Hn," Fenris shrugged, looking away at a shady spot.

"The Orlesian champion has chosen the weapon for the fight. You'll be wielding a sword and shield."

The Tevinter frowned, but didn't object.

"And the rules?" Zevran prompted.

"There are none," Alistair replied unhappily. "Fenris, they want you dead."

"Did you tell them to get in line?" Fenris rasped. He brushed past the king and stalked onto the field.

"Hey! You need armour!"

The Tevinter ignored the king's call. The last thing he wanted was to be weighed down by Fereldan plate.

As he approached, Fenris stretched his arms and neck and cracked his spine. He was stiff, still slightly intoxicated, and nauseated. However, beneath those surface complaints, he felt... enlivened. Invigorated. Fuzzy memory told him that he had confessed to the Warden's murder and been forgiven. That was one less burden to carry, one less reason to slip gently into the night.

_I will not die_, he determined, his hard green eyes finding the Orlesian champion. _Not now. I have too much to do._

The other combatant was of average size, slightly taller than Fenris. He wore a helmet and the elaborate, obnoxiously floral armour of a noble chevalier. Through the slit in the visor, Fenris saw little more of the man than glittering eyes and the bridge of his nose. Beside the Orlesian champion, Comtesse Bouchard eyed the oncoming Tevinter.

A Fereldan squire held Fenris' weapon and shield. The Tevinter took them both and grimaced with distaste. The sword was of fair quality; stripped of enchantments and too short for his preferences, but sharp and properly balanced. The shield was so much useless steel and wood. He hefted it and sneered. Only a fool stood still and accepted an attack.

"We'll be done before lunch," Comtesse Bouchard observed, a smirk of her own playing over her wrinkled, painted mouth.

Fenris stared at her. "Yes," he said stonily.

Briefly, the Orlesian's arrogant expression faltered. Then she lifted her chin and regarded her champion. "Don't make it too quick, Ser Bon," she hissed. "Make him suffer."

The chevalier nodded and saluted his superior.

Alistair, flanked by Teagan and Zevran, came up to the two fighters and the Orlesian noble. "All right, then," he said awkwardly. "May... May the best man win."

Zevran crooked a smile at the Tevinter; Fenris wasn't sure how to respond, beyond hoping that the assassin could see the gratitude Fenris felt.

After a small pause, Fenris offered a small salute of his own to the Fereldan king, fist to his shoulder and a slight flex at the waist. Perhaps his hangover made him soft or sentimental, but he felt a small stirring of respect for Alistair.

He wasn't given the chance to ponder that thought, though, as the Orlesian chevalier attacked while Fenris was still saluting.

The elf reflexively flinched, ducked and slid sideways, suffered a bad stomach cramp, avoided the sword, but took a strong bash from the man's shield that sent him scrambling backwards to keep his feet under him.

The world—the field, the chevalier, the retreating squires, the sun, the sky and the aristocrats thirsty for his blood—swam in his vision. The unfamiliar sword hung in his hand and the shield dragged at his forearm.

The Orlesian stomped forward like a wall of steel.

Fenris started to activate his lyrium, but stopped himself. He was no tool, no mindless lyrium warrior. Today, he chose to be a man. He chose to set aside the weapons given him by his Tevinter masters.

Once, he had fought on his own merit, for the sake of his mother and sister, in his search for greater strength and power. He had received that power and it was nothing but another collar.

So he bared his teeth and braced himself for honest battle.

The Orlesian was unimpressed with the infamous Black Dog of Kirkwall. Fenris soon found out why: Comtesse Bouchard's champion was a proficient warrior and Fenris, for the first time in a long time, was at an immense disadvantage. He suffered multiple shield bashes that left his shield arm numb and heavy. His own attempts were turned aside with ease, leaving significant gaps in his defence that let the other man's sword through. When he tried to strike with his truncated blade, it simply shrieked off of metal. It was infuriating, and Fenris became more and more enraged with every sting, with every drop of his own blood that soaked into the dust.

The crowd roared its approval, demanding more. Fenris didn't dare to look at them. He didn't want to see Zevran or Alistair, their disappointment.

Finally, Comtesse Bouchard mockingly called, "Finish him! Finish the _dreaded_ Black Dog!"

Ser Bon lifted his sword. Fenris moved to block, but the hit didn't come. Instead, the man struck with his pommel on the Tevinter's white head.

Fenris stumbled backward, dazed, feeling like his hangover had returned ten-fold. He wavered unsteadily and blinked at the approaching Orlesian. The man was close, so Fenris skittered further back, much to the amusement of the audience. His shield dragged. He glared at it in desperation. It was a piece of shit, it did nothing but slow him down.

The elf licked sweat from his upper lip and braced his feet wide, toes digging into the dirt. In an act more irritated than strategic, he twisted and hurled the shield at the oncoming Orlesian.

The unexpected projectile took the other man off-guard and took his legs out from under him. Ser Bon, unwieldy in his heavy armour, toppled like a stack of pots and pans.

The crowd groaned.

Fenris leapt at his chance, his only chance. He sprinted to the fallen Orlesian as the man tried to stand, threw his weight on the chevalier's shield and crushed it against the warrior's chest, pinning his arms.

Ser Bon tried to throw Fenris off, but the elf clung to the shield with fingers and toes, riding out the Orlesian's struggles. Before the man could do much else, the tattooed Tevinter brought his arm back and struck.

The tip of his borrowed blade slid into the helmet's visor and stopped. Ser Bon went very still. The crowd was silent, holding its breath.

"I will not kill you," Fenris growled under the faint whisper of a breeze. He stared at the one visible eye. The other glittered just beyond the steel in the elf's hand. "Because I am not the Viscount's general and I choose not to kill." The elf looked up at the horrified expressions of Fereldan and Orlesian alike. "Do you hear me?!" he roared. "I will not!"

Disgusted and weary and aching, he climbed to his feet and tossed the sword down into the dirt. He limped toward Alistair's shining figure, amongst his squires, courtiers and guards. The elf's slave garb fluttered in blood-stained tatters and the tattoos glimmered on his skin, but they were dormant, unused. He had won without death and by his own strength.

Alistair stood to meet him, a slow smile growing on his open human features. Fenris stopped at the edge of the field and saluted, fist to his breast.

"The fight is not over!" Comtesse Bouchard's objection rang as loudly as the battle, carrying over field and audience. She hurried from the clump of Orlesian nobility, magenta skirts lifted. Her gloved and bejewelled hand carved a violent slash through the air. "It was to the death!"

Fenris did not lift his head from his salute, but he slanted his gaze toward her. "No," he said firmly and coldly.

"You have no choice," the Orlesian hissed.

Ser Bon, judging by the clamour of steel plate, had collected himself and gotten to his feet. There was the rhythmic thud of heavy boots.

Before Fenris' pounding head and weary body could react, Alistair surged forward, startling the Tevinter into wincing sideways. In a smooth motion, the Fereldan king grabbed the shield from the nearest squire and drew his own royal sword.

The crowd gasped.

Alistair met the oncoming Orlesian shield-to-shield with a _crack_that reverberated from the courtyard walls. Where Fenris had had difficulty managing the unpredictable shifting of the other man's shield, Alistair had no such problem. Both men braced themselves, bent their legs, and laboured forward. Ser Bon's face could not be seen, but Alistair's head was bare and revealed his exertion. His face went from red to purple, tendons stood out from his neck, and his breath came deep and steady.

Fenris was sure the king would lose against that heap of heavy plate, but, slowly, Ser Bon was forced back, first at the torso, then at the heel.

Abruptly, the Orlesian gave way and swept to the side.

The force of Alistair's effort took the king forward and to one knee.

Ser Bon brought his sword down.

Laughing, Alistair had already lifted his shield, as though he had expected and pre-empted the move. The sword slid harmlessly away. Alistair angled his own weapon under and behind the other man's shield, up under his skirt, and through the gap between thigh and breastplate.

The chevalier released an agonized cry, muffled by his helmet, and crumpled over. Alistair yanked his sword out, the blade red and dripping, and smoothly stood. Breathing hard, he watched as the other man collapsed to the dirt.

"Barely a gut wound," Zevran commented with a sniff, where he had sidled close to Fenris.

The Tevinter nodded. Ser Bon probably would not die. Not unless he was left on the ground to bleed out.

"Does this satisfy you, Comtesse?" Alistair demanded as he returned to the sideline. He flicked drops of blood from the edge of his sword with each step. "Your champion lies dying."

The Orlesian noble stiffened and her cheeks flushed through the powder on her skin.

When she made no sharp reply, Alistair continued. "I look forward to meeting you at dinner. Then we will discuss our alliance." He turned and summoned his squires. "See to Ser Bon," he directed, gesturing to the fallen chevalier. "He will live to fight our true enemies." The three young and earnest Fereldans saluted and hurried away. Of Bann Teagan, Alistair asked, "Uncle, please care for the general. Healing and outfitting. I think Fenris has proven himself worthy of arms and armour."

"Of course, majesty." Teagan nodded deeply. When his gaze found Fenris, there was an expression of curiosity, perhaps respect, on his face. "This way, general."

"What a pity," Zevran sighed. "I am quite fond of this stylish outfit." His lifted eyebrow and shameless leer encompassed what was left of Fenris' insubstantial spirit hide.

Fenris ignored the assassin and followed Teagan's broad shoulders through the crowd of Fereldans. Many moved aside and their attention was heavy on the Tevinter, disapproving or afraid.

Retreating into the cool, quiet, and comparatively dim castle halls was a relief. Fenris' head swelled and retracted with his heart beat, his stomach was crawling up his throat, and the rest of his body was starting to realize just what it had gone through. Without the added strength of the lyrium, he was having trouble just putting one bare foot in front of the other.

When they were away from the crowds, Zevran commented, "According to the stories, you could have defeated him easily."

"Yes," Fenris replied.

"But you did not."

"No." The Tevinter stared straight ahead at the stone walls and mabari tapestries, but he saw fire, blood, and a thousand dead and staring eyes. "I killed enough for Hawke."

"Ah." Wisely, the assassin let that rest.

Bann Teagan took them to a small set of rooms low in the castle, full of mages and herbs, each about equally as dry. A kind, hooded woman with skin like parchment looked Fenris over, cast spells that soothed away the ill-treatment and made his lyrium itch, and admonished him to eat and sleep.

"Magic can only do so much," she said gravely. "You need to rest."

"Hn," the Tevinter replied, frowning. _Is there such a thing?_

"He will take your advice, I am sure," Zevran spoke up. The assassin's lean body rested against a scarred counter top, boots crossed at the ankle. He toyed with a bottle of some ingredient or other. When the healer looked to him, he smiled. "Can I have this?"

Bann Teagan, after a whispered chastisement from the healer, refused to take Fenris anywhere other than a bed chamber. "I'll have the tailor come to you," he said, uncomfortable under Fenris' disapproval. "Once you've had a chance to eat and sleep."

"I'd rather have the armour," Fenris grumbled.

"Have no fear, my friend," Zevran said. "I will watch you sleep." Fenris wasn't sure if this was reassurance or a threat.

"He doesn't need a guard anymore," Teagan protested.

"Perhaps not, but I did say I would watch him until his oath was fulfilled."

The dark elf was too tired to argue, so he nodded.

"We're going to keep you in the tower until the Orlesians have calmed down," the Bann continued. "I hope that won't be too great an imposition."

That suited Fenris very well. He relished the idea of solitude.

Then, when the Bann left them at the tower door, he said, "I think it would be wise not to let the assassin pour your drinks tonight, general. The Grey Wardens will arrive tomorrow and you'll want your wits about you."

The elves stared at the Fereldan dourly until the Bann sighed and departed.

"Come," Zevran said when they were finally alone. "Let me help you scrape some of that dirt away..."

/.\./.\

After a bath, a meal, some sleep ("Get out, Zevran." "But I said I would watch you." "Watch from out there. I sleep alone." "Perhaps later, then..." "Get out!"), another meal, and a morning session with a nervous-looking tailor, Fenris had achieved a state approaching good health. Though his clothing, for the moment, was borrowed finery, the tailor promised that there would be the supplest of leathers sheathing his lyrium-sensitized skin by the evening.

"Morrigan will bring your armour, as well," Zevran added, shaping the air over Fenris' shoulder. "Soon you will be back to your spiny self."

Fenris fidgeted with the puffy white sleeves and the hem of the snug waistcoat. When he shifted his weight, the baggy Fereldan pantaloons brushed the skin of his thighs uncomfortably, itching and tickling the lyrium. He missed his second skin, even the mockery in which Hawke and Danarius had clothed him. This outfit reminded him a little too strongly of Hawke, though the vibrant blue and crisp white were far from the Viscount's favoured red, black and silver. He scowled at the long mirror.

"You would make a fine lord if you wore boots," the assassin commented helpfully. He had quickly learned to keep his hands off of the Tevinter, but his gaze roved freely. "You have nothing to be nervous about."

Fenris wiggled his toes thoughtfully. The tailor had, once Fenris had expressed his immense displeasure at the idea of soles, given up on the boots and, instead, wrapped the elf's legs from knee to ankle in dark gold fabric, to suit the Fereldan style. "I'm not nervous," he replied after a long moment.

"Of course."

The Tevinter frowned at his companion. "I've seen too many fools in pomp and finery. I don't want to do the same." He reached up and tugged the high collar away from his neck.

There was a timid knock at the tower door.

"Excellent. If we leave now, you will not have time to fidget out of your costume." Zevran hummed in consideration. "Though, when I think of it that way, perhaps we should stay..."

Fenris stalked away.

A nervous servant led them back to Alistair's meeting room. The girl, a pale elven waif with faded tattoos, shied away whenever Fenris moved too quickly and she wouldn't even look at Zevran. Most of the Fereldans they passed kept their distance from the elves and a fog of muttering voices followed their progress. Finally, a set of guards admitted them into the chamber, bright with morning light from the tall eastern windows. This time, Fenris was relieved to note, no one immediately pointed him out or drew a weapon on him.

As before, the Fereldans and Orlesians were situated on each end of the long table, staring at each other mistrustfully. However, there was now a quartet of dusty, uniformed men and women in the middle; Fenris assumed they were the Grey Wardens.

Alistair stood to greet the elves and the Fereldans hurriedly jumped to their feet. The king rolled his eyes at their formality, but did not object. "Fenris," he warmly greeted the Tevinter. "Thank you for joining us."

"_This_ is the Black Dog of Kirkwall?" drawled one of the Grey Wardens, a severe, elaborately tattooed Dalish elf. His dark hair was in tight braids, close to his skull, giving him the appearance of a sleek bird of prey. "I was told the Viscount's general wore human skin and drank the blood of orphans. You're just another court dandy."

The other conversations in the room immediately stopped. Alistair stared, aghast, at the Grey Warden.

"Tears, actually," Fenris replied flatly. "Slaughter the parents to make my armour, then drink the tears of their children." He twitched a brow. "I have a system."

The two elves regarded each other levelly.

"Ser?" interjected one of the other wardens, a female dwarf. "Ser, I remember him from the battle of Lindburg's Field. It's him." She stood, thudding to the floor with a jingle of armour, and her fury shone from dark eyes. "The duster owes me for the men he killed."

"Woah, now," Alistair interceded. "That was all the Viscount's doing, warden. Fenris wasn't responsible for his actions."

"Responsible enough," Fenris argued. He nodded at the dwarf. "If we live through this, you'll have your chance at revenge."

She stared hard at him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, shortly, and slid back onto her chair.

Aggrieved, Alistair shook his head. "Right, that was a nice start. I remind you, _all_ of you-" Here, his gaze covered the Fereldans, the Grey Wardens and the sullen Orlesians, "-that Fenris is our ally and we need to _trust_ each other and work together if we're going to _survive until winter._" He paused, waiting for objections. When there were none, he continued. "Fenris, please take a seat. This is Warden Commander Evrett."

The Grey Warden elf bent his neck in acknowledgement.

At Alistair's prompting, Fenris took his place on Teagan's right, with Zevran next to him. Then the king sat, the Fereldans settled down, servants brought in drinks and maps, and the Orlesians muttered amongst themselves. Amidst the noise, Alistair leaned across Teagan to tell Fenris, in an undertone, "I'm pretty sure Evrett hates me."

"Only because you're human," Teagan interjected quietly. "A king of humans, at that."

Alistair sighed. "Sometimes I think our worst enemy is each other, not the Viscount."

"That was his intent," Fenris said solemnly. He couldn't remember much, but that part was clear. _Chaos._

"If that's so, he's done a good job of it." Alistair rubbed his brow, under the circlet. "It took most of yesterday to get Comtesse Bouchard to agree to anything and she's as much at threat as we are." He glanced sourly toward the other end of the table, where the lady in question was fanning herself and speaking to a handsome, blond youth. Fenris followed the king's gaze and was startled by the heat in the strange man's returning stare.

_Ser Bon, I presume_, the Tevinter thought disdainfully, and turned his attention back to Alistair.

"I miss the early days," the king sighed. "Even fighting the Archdemon. It was so much cleaner than... than this." A short wave of his hand encompassed the table, the castle, Denerim, Ferelden and, presumably, the undead army of a madman. "I miss having the enemy in front of me and a friend at my side."

Teagan leaned back and clapped his nephew on the shoulder. "You're doing a fine job, Alistair," he said.

Alistair replied with a half smile and a shake of his head. Then he cleared his throat and called for attention. "Please," he said. "Commander Evrett, we want to hear your report."

"No, you don't," Evrett retorted. "The darkspawn are on the move. They're coming to the surface in Nevarra and Orlais."

"What?!" Alistair nearly leapt out of his chair. "Are you saying there's another Archdemon? I haven't heard a call!"

"We don't know." The commander shuffled some papers and lay them on the table. There was a considerable stack. "We've received multiple reports of attacks."

"No," Alistair moaned. "Thedas can't handle another Archdemon. Not now."

"It's not an Archdemon," Fenris argued quietly. "It's Hawke."

Judging by Alistair's expression, this was worse. "He does _not_ have that power," the king said, a hint of desperation, of pleading, in his voice. "He can't control them!"

"No, but he can herd them. He knows the Deep Roads under the Free Marches and he has Carta in his army. Now that he has the undead, he can push the darkspawn out."

"You can't just go into the Deep Roads and push the darkspawn around," Evrett snapped. "No one can!"

"The Viscount can," Fenris replied stonily, unflinching. "And he would. He's going to tear Thedas apart to get what he wants. The darkspawn are merely another weapon at his disposal." He shrugged as the rest of the table stared at him and grimaced at the unpleasant sensation of fabric moving over his skin.

"And what _does_ the Viscount want?" the warden commander demanded.

"I don't know." Fenris kept the emotion from his own voice, the residual horror of being so intimately bound with a monster. "I guarantee that he wants no earthly treasure or crown, no country, no empire. And I know that this—" He indicated the entire table and tenuous alliances. "—This is part of his plan. He's going to have you scrambling and fighting enough that you won't even see what he's doing."

"The Tevinters-" Comtesse Bouchard started angrily.

"Created something they cannot control," Fenris interrupted. "Something more terrible than they could have imagined."

"And what do we do about it, exactly?" Evrett asked. "The wardens won't let darkspawn rampage over the countryside."

"And we can't sit by while the Viscount's armies burn Nevarra," Alistair added. He held up a hand to forestall Comtesse Bouchard's response. "Dear lady, you know that when Nevarra falls, Orlais is next. Besides which, there are a lot of angry mages in Hawke's power who bear a very real grudge against the Chantry. They would destroy Val Royeaux for that reason alone."

Teagan shook his head. "Surely, now that Hawke has shown his true colours, his allies will not stand by him!"

"The Free Marches are completely in his power," Fenris reported. He had ensured that, himself.

"The Queen of Antiva is still missing," Zevran added. "Kidnapped to an island somewhere, I think. Without her, they will do nothing. They have enough trouble keeping the pirates off their coast."

"And the dwarves haven't responded," Alistair sighed.

"They must, if the darkspawn are active. We have the treaties." Evrett tapped the table.

"Hawke is connected with the Carta," Fenris informed them. "I... Don't know any details, but he may support them. Help them rise against the dwarven government."

Alistair groaned again. "This is a nightmare."

"You can't beat him this way. It's what he wants." Fenris waved at the map, at the figurines marking where Hawke's armies had crawled, where the land had been razed. Before Evrett, Alistair or Bouchard could protest, he added, "He can't sustain these attacks, though. He's planning something and he has to do it soon."

"We... don't have many options," Alistair said, regarding the Tevinter.

"No," Fenris agreed. "You don't. But you do have me."

Alistair nodded. The Grey Warden Commander's expression turned speculative. Comtesse Bouchard snorted.

"I suggest you consolidate your forces," Fenris went on. "And prepare for a storm. Something you cannot stop, but that you can withstand."

/.\./.\

Despite Fenris' additions, the three leaders were deep in discussion until late in the afternoon. The Tevinter stopped listening about halfway through, when the conversations started to go in circles. Fenris had no interest in Thedas' struggling political sphere, anyway. He had seen enough from both sides of the battlefield to know that the war would propagate itself and quickly become as out of control as Hawke. Though, by that time Hawke intended to have fulfilled whatever it was he was trying to do.

Zevran shifted, fidgeted, muttered to Fenris about the attractiveness, or lack thereof, of the other attendees, and generally made a nuisance of himself until Fenris pushed back his chair and stood.

The people around the table looked up at him.

"My part in this is over," he informed them.

"Right," Alistair replied. "I'll send someone for you when Morrigan returns."

"Duralt is expecting you in the armoury, general," Teagan added. "You can re-equip yourself any time."

Fenris was startled by the surge of eagerness he felt at the thought. He missed the comfort of a weapon. So he nodded his white head and departed, Zevran at his side.

"I do not envy Alistair," the Antivan said as they walked the halls. "Even if he wears a shiny hat."

"It's no easier on the other side," Fenris replied. "Hawke spent most of his time in meetings. I'm still not sure how he kept it all organized. Obviously, though, he was successful." He nodded at the chaos behind them.

Zevran nodded thoughtfully, but had no response. He led the way to the armoury and greeted the aged, scarred caretaker with easy familiarity.

"Duralt, my friend needs a weapon," the assassin said warmly. "And I need to ease my boredom with sharp things."

"You know where the knives are," the Fereldan said, waving the assassin away like an annoying insect. "We got a few sets from Rivain since you last been here, and a few Orzammar finds."

"Ah!" Rubbing his hands together, Zevran strode away into the gloom amongst the dozens of shelves that filled the low room.

"And what will you have, serah?" Duralt asked, addressing Fenris. His eyes were in a permanent squint, nearly a scowl. It was difficult to pinpoint his impression of the Tevinter.

"Two-handed," Fenris replied. "Great sword, maul or axe."

The man's eyebrows, one of them mostly missing under a snarl of scar tissue, went up. He looked the slender elf over, taking in the Fereldan finery, the bare feet, the pale tattoos. He held his tongue, though, and indicated that Fenris should follow him.

The two-handed weapons waited against a long wall, held in heavy, polished racks. They were all of high quality, ranging from ornate and bejewelled great swords, wielded by nobles and kings, to immense mauls, to wicked axes with a variety of sharpened heads and spikes. Fenris paced along the racks, performing swift mental exercises to determine weapon balance and effectiveness. Most, he did not even touch. Once, he hefted a sword, performed a few practice swings, and gave it up as inferior. Two of the mauls were intriguing, but uninspiring, and none of the axes piqued his interest.

Duralt followed quietly behind him, or as quietly as a booted, heavy-breathing human could be. When Fenris reached the end of the line empty-handed, the man grunted. "Don't see anything you like?" he asked.

"No," the elf replied flatly.

"Good."

Fenris blinked and tilted his head toward the man.

"I give these sorts to the nobles that come through," Duralt explained. "No offence, but you're dressed like one."

A smirk slowly curled Fenris' pale lips. "No offence taken," he said.

"The real weapons are over here." Duralt ushered the elf into a side room, leaving behind the shelves and Zevran's cheery, disembodied crooning.

The much smaller side room contained only a small rack with maybe a dozen weapons. They were as scarred as their caretaker, scuffed and abused, but clean and sharp. Each sword, maul and axe bore a personality, a history.

Now, Fenris did not touch because it would be disrespectful. One would not find an ally by fondling or handling them. One looks another man in the eye, looks at his past and his heart, before deciding that they are right to walk with, to fight alongside.

Slowly, the elf moved down the rack. When he reached the end, his breath caught. He stared. Finally, gently, he reached out and took the axe in hand.

Duralt's gravelly voice spoke from the door:

"Our hero strode the winding road,  
Defiant of the vile.  
Uncertain pause for home and cause,  
When met the monster's smile.

A man his kin through blood and sin  
A bastard of the gloom.  
A rising cut through bone and gut,  
An awful skyward bloom."**

"Yes," Fenris murmured. For a moment, Bloom rested quietly in his palms. Then he moved the haft, shifted the jagged, red-steel head, and Bloom became an extension of his own arms, a living piece of him that had been missing since he lost Hawke. Its innate enchantments caused a distortion in the air and dropped the room's ambient temperature. "Where did you find it?"

"Some bloke from Highever brought it in with his yearly tribute." Duralt stumped over and crooked a finger at the axe's head. "You gonna want some enchantments on there?"

"Yes." For a moment, Fenris tried to remember what Hawke had had Sandal install. Then he shook his head. He would make his own blighted decisions now. "You have runes of devastation?"

Duralt's squinty expression seemed pleased. "I do."

"Devastation and spirit, then," Fenris decided.

"Very good, serah. May I?" Duralt held out his broad, creased hands.

Reluctantly, Fenris gave up the axe. He felt bereft as soon as it left his possession, but at least he knew he wasn't abandoning it in some wet gully. Again.

"I'll send it up when it's ready," the weapon master assured him as they walked together back to the main room.

"Thank you."

Zevran joined them, a grin on his face and a long dagger in his hand. He held it up. "Can I have this?"

/.\./.\

Fenris' new clothes were waiting when the two elves arrived back at their tower. Zevran, as was his wont, generously offered to help Fenris change, possibly with a prolonged break in the middle between finery and leather under-armour.

"Get out," Fenris snapped and tried to propel the assassin through the door, fingers splayed over the thick belts crossing the other man's chest.

"Surely, there are ties in the back that I can undo for you," Zevran purred. He reached up and folded his gloved hands over the Tevinter's.

"There are no ties at all!" Fenris raged, snatching his arm back. He was beginning to discover that Antivan Crows really were worse than Fereldans. Neither Hawke nor Anders had been quite so forward about what they wanted.

Of course, neither Hawke nor Anders were quite so graceful when they encountered resistance. "Very well," the assassin conceded, bowing his head very slightly and glancing up through his pale lashes. "But only if you join me in a few drinks later." He leered, turned and swaggered away, down the spiralling tower stairs.

_Maker_, Fenris swore internally once he had securely closed and locked his chamber door. Zevran's friendship, once earned, seemed to immediately lead elsewhere, without any prompting from the Tevinter. Again, Fenris felt the bite of scorn, wondering how the other elf could pursue anyone so soon after his lover, the Warden, had perished.

Fenris paused in removing his shirt, catching on a thought. He could hazily recollect the sensation of huddling with Zevran in a warm ball, as though fighting off the cold sorrows of the world around them. There had been nothing in that moment but simple comfort. Perhaps that was what the assassin was trying to recapture. Perhaps he fell back on blatant sexuality merely as a means to that end.

The Warden had been playful, but also dangerous, moral, wise, and devoted. If Zevran had been drawn to that kind of man, there was something inside of him that needed... protection?

The Tevinter shook his head and chuckled toward his new, sleek trousers. The leather was a very rich dark brown, a shade or two darker than his own skin, and soft. When he slid them on, the itchiness of his tattoos quickly subsided.

"Who am I to try and understand?" he wondered aloud. "I can tear his heart out, but I won't figure out how it works."

The sleeveless, supple leather jerkin fit exceptionally well, tight to his chest to reduce shifting, loose at the hip to allow for movement. He fastened it, smoothed it down, examined the golden trim that set off the mahogany hue of the leather. The belt was heavy, solid, complete with pouches. Once he was assembled, knowing that his armour and his favoured axe would soon be in his possession once again, he sighed deeply. It was a sigh of relief, as more and more of the black despair from the previous months lifted.

Fenris regarded himself in the chamber's mirror, seeing himself for the first time since... since he could remember. Perhaps since Hawke had forced him to look, had forced him to see the creature that followed Hawke's terrible bidding. The Black Dog truly was no more. Now, Fenris glimmered at the edges from the golden trim, and the brown leather rippled and glowed warmly under the lamp light. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides, watched the light on his skin, on the rivers of lyrium, and felt some measure of satisfaction.

_You are strong_, he told himself silently. _And you are free. You are not the thing he created._

When he joined Zevran in the main room, the assassin already had a glass of amber liquor in one hand. In the other were several slender throwing knives. Fenris watched from the stairs as, in quick succession, a half dozen of the silver objects flicked through the air and imbedded themselves in the doors of the fine wooden sideboard.

"I'm amazed Alistair lets you keep your weapons when you're in his castle," Fenris commented, descending the last few steps.

Zevran lifted his drink to the Tevinter, drained it, and then moved to collect his knives. "He knows he would have to search me personally," he remarked slyly. "I like this." He gestured toward Fenris' slender figure with the empty glass. "You look... rich. Like chocolate. Hot chocolate. And cream." Smoothly, the assassin crouched and tugged his knives free. For all that his throws were so quick and deft, the force behind them had been great. Most of the thin blades had imbedded themselves a good three inches, all within the space of about a man's palm... or heart.

"Thank you." Fenris couldn't think of much else to say. He folded his bare arms and watched the assassin, watched the man's careful demonstration of easiness, casualness.

"Here." Zevran took a bottle from the cupboard and handed it up before brushing bits of wood off of his thighs and standing.

Fenris snorted and lifted a brow. "You're going to give me a reputation for being sick all over the Fereldan king's castle."

"Is that better or worse than your current reputation?" The Antivan smirked. "I notice that Alistair's guardsmen are less frightened of you now."

"Are you trying to justify giving me a massive hangover?"

"...Is it working?"

Fenris couldn't help but chuckle. The chuckle grew into a laugh when Zevran grinned at him, his hazel eyes bright. "Give me your glass." Shaking his head, Fenris poured for them both. "And show me how to throw like that."

The assassin held up two of the tiny stilettos between his gloved fingers and twisted his hand, making them glitter in the light. "Like all good things, it's all in the wrist."

"Really?"

"...No."

/.\./.\

The elves were in fine spirits when Alistair's messenger informed them that Morrigan had arrived. The servant, a very clean woman with a hard look to her, tersely told them that the king and the witch were waiting in Alistair's private study. Then she noticed the fresh sawdust on the carpet around the sideboard and her eyes widened in horror.

"Thank you," Zevran quickly said and slid past the woman.

Fenris smoothly followed and kept the amusement from his face only with great difficulty.

** From "Song of Old Marches: The Death of Goodman Ser Austice at the Hand of the Reaver Shius," incriptions collected by Philliam, a Bard! —From Codex entry: Bloom


	26. Chapter 26

**NOTICE: This chapter was revised Sept 19, 2012.**

In which there is plotting, a few old friends, and a very confused Fenris infuriating his author. And erotic piercing. Hellz yeah.

**Disclaimer:** All hail BioWare.

**Playlist Recommendations:  
**Sting – Shape of my Heart  
Madonna – Like a Prayer, Frozen  
Niyaz  
Titan AE OST – Karma Slave

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty-six**

Morrigan was waiting with Alistair and Teagan when the elves entered the king's study. It was a cluttered little room, far from the royal opulence of his audience chambers. In one corner was a shabby desk covered in papers and writing paraphernalia. There was a set of old splint mail in another corner, accompanied by a scarred shield and a plain long sword. Wherever there was a surface, on tables, shelves and the mantle, there were a variety of little figurines and carvings, ranging from ornaments that could have been whittled by a child, to items that wouldn't have been out of place in a royal treasury.

Amidst the clutter, the trio sat in comfortable chairs arranged in a half circle around a low table heavy with drink and food.

"Your hospitality is unmatched," Zevran declared. He flung himself onto a couch, leaned forward and helped himself to a plate of breads and cheeses.

"And you never cease to test it," Teagan replied, rolling his eyes.

"They did a good job." Alistair ignored the bickering in favour of commenting on Fenris' new under armour. "Sit down, Fenris. Help yourself. We don't stand on formality here."

"Do we ever stand on formality?" Though the Bann sighed, his expression was fond when he regarded his nephew.

"Only when the Orlesians are looking."

While the two were talking, Fenris settled beside Zevran. When he glanced up, Morrigan's pearlescent gaze was on him. The witch curled in a chair close to the fire, eerily still, her hands folded around the black, charred staff resting against her knees.

"Here," Zevran interrupted Fenris' staring. He shoved food and drink at the Tevinter. "If I am lucky, you won't be standing at all by the end of the night."

Alistair coughed on a mouthful of something. "Well," he said loudly when his throat was clear, "Morrigan, you were going to, uh, tell us what you found?"

"I met your somniari," she began. "Twas surprisingly easy. Like the rest of Thedas, Feynriel is aware of the unrest that Hawke has caused and was watching for trouble. We spoke for a time; he seems to make it a habit of looking out for women in need." She smiled coldly. "Everyone needs a hobby, I suppose."

"How did you find him?"

"I dreamed."

A shiver trembled down Fenris' spine. He hid it behind his drink.

"Can he do what we need him to do?" Alistair persisted.

"He believes so. Anders won't have the defences that Tevinter magisters are trained in, though he's concerned about the Fade spirit inhabiting the abomination. With other fighters, though, he thinks he will be able to do it. To that effect, Feynriel can pull a small group into Anders' mind. If we can get him to sleep."

"I spoke with Comtesse Bouchard. The Orlesians have, or had, a strong presence in Nevarra City."

"Spies," Zevran filled in.

"Bards," Alistair corrected.

"Liars with lyres." The assassin winked at Fenris, as though sharing a joke.

The Tevinter quirked a lip, though he was more bemused than anything.

"Nevarra City is occupied by Hawke's army, so Comtesse Bouchard can't communicate with her agents. However, if you get in there, you can carry a message to her people and arrange for... something." Alistair looked hopefully toward Zevran.

"A sleeping draught, perhaps," Zevran shrugged.

"Hawke has everything tested." Fenris scowled at the memory of feeding from the Viscount's hand. "For Anders as well."

"Food is the very least of the available means to deliver a poison." The Antivan leaned close to the Tevinter. "Maybe I can show you some." When Fenris maintained a flat stare, Zevran chuckled and returned to his place. "I should think a competent bard will have the means. They need only a target and a time."

Alistair held up a hand and ticked off the items on his strong fingers. "You go to Nevarra, contact the Orlesians, arrange a time, and then the dream walker takes you into Anders' dreams. When Anders is... well. When he's gone, we discuss options to take out Hawke. Sounds simple."

"How do they get to Nevarra?" Teagan asked. "There's an army in the way. Not to mention the leagues of land and the Waking Sea."

Zevran groaned. "Do not ask, Fereldan. It is not worth contemplating!"

"And the other mage?" Morrigan asked. "You contacted the Circle?"

"I did," Alistair nodded. "Wynne had a former student to recommend, actually. A spirit healer. Familiar with the Tevinters, squeamish at the sight of blood. He should be here sometime tomorrow."

"Then I'll return the following morning," the witch decided. "And take you to Nevarra."

Zevran made a rather pitiful noise.

"That's a plan then, right?" Alistair's expression brightened. "I like plans. They make me feel like we have a chance."

"It's _a_ plan," Bann Teagan said. "I'm not sure if it's the _best_ plan."

"It's better than what we had." Fenris bowed his head to the Fereldan king. "And I can think of nothing to improve it. There may be too many if's, too many maybe's, but that's what we have."

"Maker help us all," Alistair added. "We can use it."

"And what of my armour?" Fenris asked Morrigan. Discussing the upcoming mission made him feel the lack keenly.

Alistair replied. "There was so much damage, I took the liberty of sending it to the armourers." He offered a small smile. "I hope you don't mind."

"I... Thank you." Fenris could count on one hand the number of times someone else had gone out of their way for him, completely unprompted, without gaining benefit for themselves.

_You are their weapon_, he reminded himself. _They need you._ The thought had less of a sting than it once had, though. The words had less weight, less truth to them.

"You're welcome. It'll be ready before you leave, of course."

"Of course."

There wasn't much more to discuss. After some idle chatter, passing by Fenris' preoccupied ear like the meaningless chirping of birds, the Tevinter stood to leave. Zevran shoved some more of Alistair's food in his mouth and followed. With a brief farewell, the elves departed.

"I am glad I did not kill you," Zevran commented after a few minutes of walking.

Fenris turned his head to regard the man, the attractive elven profile. The assassin was looking away, to somewhere near the ceiling. His expression was mostly obscured by blond hair and shadow.

The Tevinter was startled to be able to answer, in all honesty, "As am I. Did Alistair still pay you?"

Zevran laughed and met Fenris' curious stare. "No. I will remind him. Though, I cannot help but think I gained more than money in the transaction." His smile was infectious and Fenris could not deny that the assassin's relentless charm was having an effect, even on the Tevinter's hardened heart.

He was nearly too distracted to notice the sword aimed at his head.

The blade swooped down from around the corner as the elves passed a castle intersection. Fenris' eye caught on a gleam of metal, the sound of steel, leather and chain sparked recognition, and he immediately dropped into a crouch. The sword struck a tapestry above Fenris' head and its wielder followed it around the corner. The blond chevalier released a strangled, furious cry and swung again, clumsily chopping down at the Tevinter.

"Braska!" Zevran swore and pulled his weapons. "Drunk Orlesians!"

Fenris delicately side-stepped the attack, ducked the next, and came up close to the chevalier. "Ser Bon," he said firmly. "The fight is over."

Ser Bon's eyes were red and glazed and his handsome face twisted in rage. He stank of wine. Fenris was amazed he could still stand. He stared at Fenris' face and snarled something in his own language. Then he tried to swing his sword again.

Unarmed and unprotected, Fenris activated his lyrium and, with intense concentration, ghosted his own torso.

Ser Bon's sword and part of his gauntleted arm passed through the elf. The chevalier stumbled, off balance. He gaped at Fenris.

"Go back to your lady," Fenris growled once he could breathe again. Bad enough to stick his hands through things; he did not like the sensation of objects moving through his chest. "Save your vengeance for the enemy."

"You're a demon," the man hissed.

One of Hawke's easy answers came to Fenris' mind. "Hardly," he replied. "You're just too drunk to hit anything."

"Easy, friend," Zevran added before the Orlesian could continue the attack. "If we have to send you back to the healers, they might decide to keep you." He sidled to the man's shoulder and gently steered him in the direction from whence he came, keeping a ready dagger hidden from sight at the small of his back.

Ser Bon blinked and sagged. His sword dropped toward the floor. "She's going to make me stay," he muttered. "In this place of dogs and barbarians."

"Then you will fit in quite nicely, I should think." With a strong push, Zevran got the man moving. "Go to bed, Ser Bon, and thank your Maker that Tevinter elves are more forgiving than Antivan."

They watched the man stagger off. Whenever he hit a wall, there was a squeal of metal on stone and both elves winced. When he woke in the morning, Ser Bon's plate was going to need some major repairs.

"How sad," Zevran murmured as they continued toward the tower. "Though, now I know what you can do." He smirked. "I do not hesitate to say, I am fascinated and very, very curious."

"And you'll stay curious," Fenris told him fondly.

/.\./.\

The Circle mage arrived when Fenris and Zevran were sparring with Alistair and his close councillors under a cool, overcast sky. They fought well together, one man or woman and then another taking on a defensive, aggressive or supporting role. Surprisingly, Fenris found that he enjoyed the activity, the steady cadence of his heart, the quickening of his breath, and the old, familiar weight of Bloom in his hands. His armour felt good, strong and light, after Alistair's personal armourer had it repaired and slightly modified. ("It's gold," the elf commented sourly, lifting a hand and working the articulation of a gauntlet. The hinges, plates and rivets were all perfect, allowing for smooth, flawless motion. It was just the new colour he took issue with. "It's more... bronze. Ish," was Alistair's bald-faced lie. "I want my men to know that you aren't still under the Viscount." "Now you are under the Fereldan king," Zevran joked. At Fenris' dour glare, Alistair hurriedly countered, "Fenris is under no man." "Oh-ho!" the Antivan chortled, "he is on top, then!")

A group of robed persons entered the training yard and Fenris' skin shivered a warning of magic, but he was too occupied keeping Zevran's dagger and sword away from his tender places to take much notice. The Tevinter swept his axe about, fending the assassin away, and then dodged backward as one of Alistair's shieldmaidens tried to slam into him. Like Aveline, this woman was a sturdy, obstinate creature, wielding a mace and an iron-riveted targe. With practice, she was going to be a mighty warrior.

"Take him at the hip," Zevran called to his new ally. "It sets him off-balance!"

"Flames take you, Zevran!" Fenris roared. "Keep your mark of death to yourself!"

"I am a friendly man," the Antivan protested, shrugging. "I like to share."

The shieldwoman came at the Tevinter then, obeying Zevran's suggestion. Fenris tried to scythe past, but her shield was held on a stronger shoulder than he had expected. His movements slowed at the obstacle and the woman brought her mace across to crack into his hip.

Fenris forced the pain down, far down, below a calm and steady expression. He took the resulting anger and energy and bore down on Zevran.

Laughing, the assassin backpedalled and then disappeared in a puff.

Fenris, familiar with the move, hurriedly spun about, Bloom screaming a wicked arc around him.

He hit. Leather, muscle and then bone split under Bloom's edge. Zevran gasped and dropped his sword. His arm hung useless and dripping at his side. He was suddenly pale, ashen in shock, the tattoo on his cheek standing out sharply. "Urg," he chuckled wheezily. "I should... not have used that on you..."

"You're a fool," Fenris replied and quickly locked Bloom onto his back. "I fought in the criminal underworld for six years; I know how to counter a back attack." He caught the assassin around the waist and lifted the man's good arm around his shoulders. "Come on. A potion and a drink."

"I must admit, I did not expect such a... such a mighty swing." Zevran's head lolled to the side and his weight was heavy, nearly dragging, on Fenris' shoulders. "I nearly lost the arm..."

"Maker's breath!" The speaker was an average enough human man, for a mage, with dark, reddish hair and the complexion of a recluse recently expelled into the world; soft skin with a bit of sunburn on the nose and brow. He hurried forward, twisted staff in hand and green light glowing around his free fingers. Alistair and the other mage followed behind. "Look at all that blood!"

"You should see... the other guy," Zevran muttered.

"I _am_ the other guy," Fenris replied.

"Fighters," the mage scoffed and cast his spell.

Half of Fenris' body tensed and crawled. The mage was strong and the flavour of his magic was unfamiliar. Even feeling it through Zevran's sagging figure was bad enough. The Tevinter managed not to flinch too embarrassingly, though. He stood solid and held the assassin while the broken arm repaired itself under the faint green aura.

"He'll need to rest a while," the mage said when he was done and the light faded away. He looked to Fenris sharply. "You'd be Fenris, I gather? The former general?"

"How did you guess?"

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps because your comrade was _bleeding to death_?"

"Finn, when you're at their level, you don't spar with wooden swords." Alistair came abreast of the man and waved him down. "Zevran knew what he was getting into." He glanced worriedly toward the assassin. "You did, didn't you?"

Zevran mumbled something against Fenris' breastplate and slid toward the ground. The Tevinter sighed and hefted the limp assassin into his arms.

"Is he going to be all right?" the king asked.

The mage took a closer look and nodded. "Yes. It's just a bit of shock."

"You know Zevran." Another mage approached, this one an aged, poised, and white-haired female. She gazed on the assassin fondly. "Keep him warm, feed him well, and he'll be fine by morning."

"I hope so," Alistair said, folding his arms. "That's when he leaves."

/.\./.\

"The Warden mentioned you," Zevran remarked later, much later, once he'd come around. He didn't seem at all bothered by the fact that he woke up in Alistair's study, tucked between the arm of the couch and Fenris' shoulder. Fenris could only imagine that the assassin had woken in far stranger places. The man had merely worked his arm, grinned at the Tevinter, and then introduced himself to the new mage.

"Really?" Finn briefly smiled, and then looked perturbed. "Um, what did he say? Exactly?"

"That for all the crying, you were good to have at his side."

"Um. Thank you. I think." The mage frowned slightly, as though he couldn't quite decide how to respond. "Where is the Warden, anyway? I thought he would be here. I mean, the Hero of Ferelden should be fighting, right?"

"Yes, I was expecting to see him by your side." Wynne, the other mage and Finn's escort, held out a plate of biscuits to the Antivan. "You lost a lot of blood. Eat more. So, how is he?"

Zevran and Alistair went very quiet. Zevran took a biscuit, but he rolled it in his long fingers and stared at the crumbs falling on his knees.

"He fought," Fenris answered for them, when the silence went on too long. "Before anyone else knew something was wrong, he tried to destroy the Viscount."

Finn licked his lips nervously as he looked to Fenris. "And, uh, and what happened?"

Coldly, Fenris replied, "I killed him."

Wynne drew in a short, sharp breath. Finn's eyes widened. He stared at the elf and swallowed audibly.

Zevran scowled. It was one of the few times that Fenris had seen honest anger on the assassin's features. "You did not!" he exclaimed adamantly. "It was the Viscount who struck the final blow!"

"I may have well," Fenris grumbled.

"Shut up," Zevran snapped.

"What?"

"This." The assassin gestured with what was left of his biscuit, what small fragment wasn't scattered in his lap. He waved it at Fenris. "This brooding. I've had enough."

Fenris recoiled, blinking rapidly. "I-"

"Stop it. You did not kill him. But you will avenge his death, yes? This is what's important."

"He would agree," Wynne interjected. "I am so... so sad to hear that he fell." She rubbed the finely creased flesh under her eyes. "I will miss him..."

Alistair reached out and put a sympathetic arm around the woman. "I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner, Wynne. We couldn't let Ferelden know that she had lost her hero."

"I... I understand." The mage took a deep breath and patted Alistair's hand, huge and strong on her arm. "At least she still has her king."

There was a moment of quiet, thoughtful and melancholy, before Alistair shook his head. "Right, well, Finn, I hope you're ready to save the world."

"Um."

"It's more fun than reading about it," Wynne assured the other mage kindly. "Biscuit?"

"Yes, please," Zevran said and grabbed a few. "They are quite good," he whuffled around a crumbly mouthful.

Alistair sighed. "As I was saying, Morrigan will take you to Nevarra City. Your contact is a human bard, Marjolain." Zevran and Wynne startled and the king nodded. "The very same. Leliana's old teacher. She was moving in the Nevarran elite circles when Hawke attacked. Comtesse Bouchard is sure that she'll be in a position of influence, no matter who runs the city. You can find her through Lord Fawnley."

"Lord Fawnley," Fenris repeated.

"Comte Faux Nolle," Alistair said with a brutal rendition of the Orlesian accent. "An Orlesian loyalist."

Fenris snorted. "Of course. I know one of his handmaidens."

Zevran lifted a fair eyebrow. "Really? I did not take you for the type."

"I'm not," the Tevinter replied flatly. "Anders was, though." He scowled at the memory.

"How do we get back out?" Finn asked worriedly. He fidgeted with the twining necks of his staff, where the wood was already glossy and polished. "I imagine the Viscount will be interested to know who, uh... disabled?... Anders." The words were halting, like he was trying to prompt someone to tell him what, exactly, they were trying to do.

"Morrigan wasn't clear on whether she'd be able to pull you out," Alistair replied and shrugged apologetically. "You may be on your own."

"Then we kill the abomination and find our own way." With every iteration of his intentions, Fenris felt more capable of the act. His gauntleted hands fisted between his knees.

"Maker," Finn murmured, blanching. "I _knew_ Anderfels."

"I'm sorry, Finn," Wynne said, reaching over and laying a wizened hand on her student's knee. "The man we knew is gone."

The nausea Fenris felt matched the expression on Finn's face.

They spoke at some length more about the plan for the following day, about the equipment they would need, about the ways that they could contact the Orlesians. Alistair gave them each a small charm, something of a letter of introduction between the Orlesian spies, and the words to give the charms meaning.

Eventually, the conversation dwindled to wistful recollections of "the Blight Days," as Alistair fondly referred to them. Days for heroic acts instead of frightened plotting. At this point, Fenris, feeling the tug of his own nostalgia, excused himself.

"Join us for breakfast," Alistair requested.

"Sleep well, serah Fenris," Wynne offered softly.

The Tevinter nodded and departed.

He hadn't gotten more than half the length of a hallway before Zevran, armour faintly jingling, trotted after to join him. This was half-expected, though he didn't know if he felt relieved or disappointed by the other man's consistent company.

"You can stay with your friends," Fenris offered, a mix of amused and fatigued. "I know you said you'd watch me, but you have my word I won't go anywhere without you." He offered a quirk of the lip. "I'd run into a locked door and get stuck."

"Lies," the assassin replied. "You would pass an arm through and unlatch it from the other side."

Fenris blinked. "I... I've never thought of that."

"Besides, I would rather spend the night in your company." Zevran's grin was infectious, almost disturbingly so.

Fenris should have felt suspicious, or at least cynical, of the truth in those words, but he couldn't bring himself to be. Zevran was one of those glimmers of light, shining against the night, against adversity. So he shook his head and smirked, but did not refute the man.

"I have something to give you," the Antivan said when they ascended into their tower. The fire was lit and cheerful, the sideboard had been refilled, and the suite was ready for the elves to sully once again.

Fenris paused in the centre of the room, his heart lurching and stomach constricting uncomfortably. He turned to regard the assassin, where the other man was locking their door.

"I killed the last man who gave me a gift," Fenris replied flatly. "And the one before that traded me into the worst seven months of my life."

"Well," Zevran smiled, "no time like the present to break a habit, no?"

He approached the wary Tevinter. When they were close, when the scent of leather, metal, brandy and Antivan spice was strong, Zevran stopped. He pulled his gloves off, slowly, and reached up to one of his own long, delicate ears. With a deft twitch, he pulled out a small gold earring.

"Here," he said, presenting it on his palm.

"Your earring?" Fenris said, baffled. "I don't wear earrings."

"You could start."

"I..." He felt vaguely uncomfortable. There was something very intimate about the tiny golden circle. Perhaps that it had been in the other elf's flesh, like it was a piece of Zevran. Was the elf giving himself to Fenris? "Does this mean something? In Antiva?"

"Are we in Antiva?" One of those casual grins flashed across Zevran's face. He was hiding something, his own concerns or desires, perhaps. "It means what you want it to mean."

"What do _you_want it to mean?" Fenris demanded obstinately. He was uneasy, suddenly, with the narrow space between them, with the other man's intensity.

"That we are friends. Allies. Brothers of the heart." The assassin sighed over the ring. "I gave one to the Warden. It meant I was always with him."

"And you always want to be with me? Why?"

"You need to ask?"

"Yes." Fenris frowned.

"You are handsome, strong, exciting, deadly, intelligent, wounded, gentle. Did I mention handsome?" The assassin's voice was a warm purr, just on the near side of lecherous, but too honest, too earnest to be that simple. He leaned forward, reached out with his empty hand to skim the backs of slender fingers over Fenris' sensitive inner elbow.

The Tevinter shivered and flinched. "I have been desired for my body before. Danarius. Hawke." The names were like bile on his tongue, accompanied by memories of shame, pain, of some twisted pleasure.

Zevran _tsk-_ed and shook his head. "It is not that. I could have any number of beautiful creatures." He advanced, forcing Fenris to either back away or submit to further contact. The dark elf edged backward. "It is your heart, your mind," Zevran continued softly. "They draw me, like they drew the Warden." He pinched the ring and held it up; it turned red in the firelight. "I want you to have this, so you will remember me and remember that you are not alone. No matter what happens."

"That sounds rather ominous, assassin." Fenris took the ring, though, finally, holding it gingerly between claws that nearly matched the metal.

"It was supposed to be romantic," Zevran returned, looking put-out.

Fenris lifted a sceptical eyebrow.

"Wear the flaming ring," the assassin finally huffed. "It took three tries to get the Warden to wear his and I am less patient in my advanced age."

A snicker worked its way out of the Tevinter. "Very well," he rumbled.

"Excellent!" Zevran leaned forward again in his enthusiasm and sneaked another scrape of skin against skin, fingerpads on Fenris' upper arms. "I have a box of tools. Needles and the like. You will barely feel it, I promise. Get some drinks and sit near the fire."

The thought of pain didn't unnerve Fenris. Rather, he was nervous about wearing the favour of another man so obviously, so soon after the tumultuous events of his own fall and Hawke's rise. What would this say about him, or the one who gave it to him?

_Does it matter?_ he wondered as he did as the assassin had bid, fetching a bottle and glasses from the sideboard. One handed, he place them on the table and then stood and considered the thing. It was so small, so insignificant. _It's just a ring. Nothing more. _He had never had a reason for jewelry in the past. It had been... beyond him. Something Varric and Isabela indulged in, a part of their glamour. If he wore an amulet or a ring, it was to provide some advantage in battle.

"What advantage do you give?" he asked Zevran's earring.

"The whole of Thedas will know that you are protected by a Crow," the assassin answered, trotting down the stairs. He had abandoned his weapons and armour, leaving his torso exposed, the smooth planes of muscle shifting under his lightly tanned skin. He smirked and pointed a long, narrow wooden box at the waiting bottle. "Will you pour for us, my friend? I cannot poke holes without at least two glasses in me."

"This does not bode well," Fenris muttered, but obeyed the Antivan.

By the fire, Zevran directed Fenris to sit on the floor in front of a chair. The warmth was nearly too much on the side of the Tevinter's face and his arm, and the metal of his armour quickly heated. More uncomfortable was the length of elven thigh that nudged first one shoulder and then the other.

"You must remove these," Zevran said, tugging on Fenris' shoulder guards. "Or I will pierce my own wrists."

"Is this really necessary?"

"Well, sure, I could stab your ear and be done with it, but there is an entire ritual."

"A ritual?"

"This is no mere decoration, my friend. This is a gift."

After a moment of sweaty deliberation, Fenris reached up and removed the hot metal of his outer armour. His shoulder guards, breastplate, belts and gauntlets found themselves in an untidy pile in one of the other chairs, leaving Fenris much more comfortable, temperature-wise, but absurdly sensitive where the cooler air hit his skin, where Zevran's motions came close to touching him.

"Now you must relax," the assassin continued, speaking over the clinking of thick glass and wood from his little box. He lifted out a small vial, only half-seen from the edge of Fenris' eye, and the green scent of rosemary, undercut with the sweet spice of amber, coiled through the air. Fenris' recognized it as the scent that the Antivan carried with him, mingled with leather, liquor and death. After rubbing his palms together, Zevran went on. "If you flinch, it could scar your ear." His hands settled at the base of Fenris' skull, warm and careful. Strong fingers pressed into the tense, wiry muscle running from neck to head, and the Tevinter's spine tried to melt.

Fenris tried to hide the effect that such a simple touch had on him, but he did a poor job of it. Zevran chuckled and his fingers slid further down, dipping under the Tevinter's collar. The ropes of muscles couching Fenris' spine cried out for attention, all up and down his back, echoed by a phantom ache in his shoulders and under the blades.

"This will be easier if you remove your garment," Zevran murmured. As though to encourage the Tevinter, he exerted particularly delicious pressure.

Fenris didn't quite gasp, but he did release a short, ragged breath. He did not like the idea of the other elf's hands all over him, but his body was railing at him, demanding more of that warm, slippery attention.

The Tevinter gracefully submitted and removed his jerkin.

"Just like the day we met," Zevran commented, a smile in his low voice. "Though I prefer you awake, I think."

Before Fenris could object to that, the assassin kneaded a path across the other elf's shoulders and down. He was a keen and observant masseuse and seemed to know how firmly he needed to touch in order to appease the sensitive tattoos.

Fenris groaned and cut it off, embarrassed. Zevran murmured something in Antivan and pushed harder, forcing the Tevinter to double over and give the assassin access to his lower back.

As though they were all connected through his back, Fenris' limbs, his arms and legs and even his chest, responded in a confusing mix of tension and relaxation. At times, his hands clawed against the plush Fereldan carpet of their own volition, or his toes twitched, or his hips forgot how to hold him upright.

After some time, he felt rather more like a puddle than a man, warm and sleepy, utterly relaxed.

"It is time," Zevran said quietly. "Lean back."

Fenris obeyed with only a small mutter of discontent.

"Your supple skin can take advantage of my talents any day, my friend," the assassin assured him. "You may rest your head back. I have you."

_Someone has you_, Fenris told himself. In this quiet moment, it was a comforting thought. He leaned back until his head was cradled in a soft pillow on Zevran's knees.

The assassin did more in his wooden box. Fenris listened, his eyes closed, his thoughts gently floating.

"I need to heat the needle," Zevran explained quietly.

"Hm."

There was a faint hiss. Then a touch along the edge of his jaw, a whisper of soft hairs across his brow.

Fenris frowned and opened his eyes.

Zevran smirked and kissed the Tevinter soundly, though sideways, and pain bloomed in Fenris' ear. It lasted mere seconds, while the assassin swallowed Fenris' huff of surprise. Zevran's quick fingers fastened the ring in the new hole, then slid forward, to gently frame Fenris' cheeks and chin.

Fenris' initial reaction was to protest and push away, but it was nice, so nice. He was relaxed and the pain had subsided as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only a pleasant weight. He reached up and let Zevran's fine blond hairs tangle in his dark fingers.

_Maker, I missed this_, came the wistful thought. _Someone to love._

He immediately went very still.

Zevran lifted his head and his hazel eyes searched Fenris' face. An expression of puzzlement appeared on his own. "Did it hurt?"

"Hm? No." Fenris blinked and thoughtfully traced the assassin's hairline with dark, wondering fingertips. "No, I barely felt it."

"You felt it at all?" Zevran leaned back, a faint pout on his lips before he disappeared from sight. Fenris let his hand fall back to his lap. "I am losing my touch," the assassin muttered.

Fenris straightened, letting his head drop forward for a stretch, before he twisted to regard the other elf. _He's talking about more than just piercing_, he thought, but it was more amusement and curiosity than accusation, like he had expected this to happen and now he was watching it play out. "You'll have to keep touching until you get it back," he said.

The assassin laughed, brows lifted and eyes wide. "Was that _innuendo_, my stoic friend?"

Fenris frowned. "Is that a surprise?"

Blond hair fanning, Zevran shook his head. Then he shrugged and smiled apologetically. "I would be lying if I said 'no.' I did not expect such, um, clever wordplay."

"Why am I the only one who can't say these things properly?" the Tevinter muttered bitterly, tilting his face away. Hawke, Anders and now Zevran... Their words, so slick and disarming, so easy, wore away Fenris' defences in a way he could hardly understand, leaving him unguarded. For all his efforts, though, he could never do the same.

"Because your skills lie elsewhere." Zevran leaned forward until Fenris could feel the warmth of his breath. The assassin lay gentle fingers against the Tevinter's chin and moved Fenris' head to meet the evasive green eyes. He smiled. "You do not rely on cleverness to get what you want."

Zevran kissed him again. Fenris allowed it, but his response was minimal; he neither protested nor encouraged. Part of him wanted to give in, to maybe forget everything and enjoy himself for once, but when he blinked, he saw other other faces. He imagined thicker strands of hair, broader features, eyes like warm crescents. His skin yearned for stubble and lightning, and it disgusted him. _Do you even know who you are?_ he asked himself, bitter and confused. _Or what you want?_

When it went on too long, Fenris lay his hand over Zevran's, holding it against his own cheek. The assassin gave one last, questioning flick of his tongue, before he retreated. He tried to sit back, to reclaim his hand, but Fenris held him.

"You do not want me," Zevran stated, his tone light, nearly humorous. "This is no great tragedy." He tried to get his hand free again, but Fenris held him. The Tevinter, seated on the floor, stared up, unflinching, at the Antivan. Zevran smiled uncertainly. "May I have my hand, serah? After all this, I know I will need it."

Fenris snorted. He shifted, turning and rising to his knees, lacing his fingers with Zevran's. "Brother of my heart, remember?" he rumbled. "Right now, I want your friendship more than I want your libido."

The assassin blinked and blanched under his tattoo. It looked like Fenris had broken his arm again. "I..." he started and trailed away. Then he cleared his throat and tried to smirk. "You can have both."

"Not now." He couldn't, not with memories of Hawke, Anders and his entire twisted existence simmering just under the skin. He remembered his first time with Hawke; the ecstasy, the release, the confusion and then the tumbling riot of images, sensations, scents, feelings. It had frightened him so badly that he could barely look at the man for weeks, had only agreed to accompany him on his errands for fear that a lesser warrior would get Hawke injured. Now, it would be as bad, if not worse, with the knowledge that Anders was out there, waiting to die, with a Hawke who may or may not be destroyed beyond help.

"_I_ want both," Zevran whispered plaintively, almost petulantly, and tried to cross his arms.

"One day, perhaps, we'll all get what we want." Fenris finally released the other elf. He reached back to claim their drinks and then edged himself onto the couch next to the Antivan.

He offered a full glass. After a moment, Zevran accepted it. His hazel gaze lingered on the Tevinter's features and his expression was difficult to read, impossible to interpret.


	27. Chapter 27

**NOTICE: This chapter was revised Sept 19, 2012**

In which there is skulking, talking, violence, dreaming, mockery, sacrifice and... and bravery.  
This can also be known as the Mustache Chapter.

There are a bunch of reference pics for Feynriel on Deviant Art if anyone's interested; for some reason the links aren't working in here.

**Disclaimer: **Property of BioWare, all hail.

**Playlist Recommendations:**  
Metallica – Enter the Sandman (just for kicks)  
Marvin Gaye - Sandman

**Character Notes:**  
Feynriel: When I played, he ended up going to Tevinter to train. In DA2, there is a quest where he rescues a noble woman by killing a bunch of bandits in their sleep. So this is the character I envision: Cocky and self-assured after years of learning what he's capable of, sometimes unaware of his own weaknesses, and he wants to do what's right and be a hero. Of course, like most of us, he's rather deluded. Oh, and he likes the ladiez.

Finn: He's your delightfully nerdy mage character from Witch Hunt, one of the 2 DLCs I've played :3 In an act of All Powerful Author, I decided that he became romantically involved with the Dalish elf character in Witch Hunt and returned to her tribe, where he learned the Keeper branch before the dirt and mosquitoes got to him. So he uses Spirit, Spirit Healing, and Keeper spells.

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty-seven**

"I knew Anderfels pretty well, actually. We were at the Circle for a while together. As students."

Fenris blinked and tilted his head toward the mage. They waited in the hall outside of Morrigan's closet, the two elves casually lounging against the walls and Finn seated on a miniscule folding chair on the floor across from the door, making some kind of notation in a small book. Alistair was at a nearby junction, speaking with Bann Teagan and another councillor.

"Did you have a pet spider?" the Tevinter asked after a thoughtful pause.

"What?!" Finn nearly dropped his quill, he started so badly. He gazed up at the elf, expression horrified. "No!"

"Pity," Fenris replied, sighing and shifting his weight. "I need to thank whoever did. Or break their nose."

"What?" the mage blurted again.

Fenris didn't bother to explain.

"Um, anyway," Finn continued, and his quill scratched once more at the parchment. "He was always getting into trouble. It's a miracle they didn't make him Tranquil, with how many times he tried to escape. An excellent healer, though. Maybe they thought he'd grow out of it."

"Fools," Fenris scoffed.

The quill scratching became slightly frantic.

"What are you scribbling about?" Zevran asked after a few otherwise quiet moments. The Antivan was fidgeting with a vial of something green, holding it up in the light of a nearby torch and squinting through.

"Just some theories I have about the Eluvian and its effects. About the Nevarran Necropolis and the Tevinter magic that the Viscount got access to." Finn began slowly, but quickly picked up speed as he discussed his research. "You see, there was a grimoire—well, we _suspect_ that there was a grimoire, anyway—made from thousands, _tens_ of thousands, of slaves; Tevinter, barbarian, elf, Qunari, dwarf and otherwise. A group of magisters, powerful and... curious... they managed to store these tortured souls in the grimoire, for the purpose of, well, of bringing them back. Channelling them into the dead. Like with their normal curses, but with greater control and, well, longevity. I suppose."

"I see," the assassin said, eyes glazed and vial hanging at his side. "That is... very interesting." He blinked, shook his head and changed the topic. "Where is the witch?"

"You say she'll just appear?" Finn asked. "In there?" He pointed the tidy feather of his quill at the doorway and the empty closet beyond.

"First, the very fabric of reality will be rent asunder," Zevran purred, miming the act of ripping cloth. "Like... like a noble woman's silk bodice by the hands of her moustachioed bandit lover. Then will come the howling of a host of demons, all of them heaving, straining against the weakened fabric. But... lower. Surging, throbbing, hot and eager to get out. Then there will be darkness, soft and warm, muffled like a held breath."

Finn stared, his face getting progressively redder, his mouth slacker. The nub of his quill rested on his book and Fenris suspected that the blot of ink on the parchment wasn't the only thing growing larger as the assassin explained the ins and outs of the Eluvian.

"Then, when you feel you cannot take anymore-"

"You become violently ill," Morrigan finished dryly. "On my floor."

Finn jumped and spattered ink all over the stones and the knees of his green and yellow robe. He swallowed, gaped at the witch, and gaped even more at the rippling oval of dark light that had come into existence in the middle of the closet. "Y-you," he blurted.

Morrigan crossed her white arms and rested her hip against the door frame. Under her burgundy cowl, there may have been a glimmer of amusement. "Me?"

"We, uh, we met? Sort of? A-anyway, I thought there was going to be a noise. The, uh, the howling of demons and whatnot?" He peered behind the witch and blinked at the wavering tear in the fabric of reality, as though expecting it to expel either a demon or a moustachioed bandit.

"The only sound you'll hear is Zevran losing his breakfast on the other side," Morrigan told him coolly.

Zevran groaned, Finn got to his feet and started to clean himself off, and Alistair finally noticed that the trio were about to leave. The Fereldan king hurried over, Teagan at his side.

"Witch," he greeted Morrigan cordially.

"Idiot," she returned, nodding.

The king turned to the Tevinter. "Fenris, I wish we could have met a better way, but I'm glad we did meet." Alistair held out his strong arm. Fenris clasped the offered hand and was abruptly hauled into a embrace. "Maker keep you," the Fereldan uttered quietly over the elf's white head. "Our prayers go with you."

Before Fenris could struggle, Alistair set the elf back on his bare feet. "Thank you," was all he could think to say. "I did not expect your... generosity." _Or forgiveness_, his mind filled in.

"Well, you stand for us all. Whatever the Viscount is up to, you're one of the few who can stop him." Alistair's expression pulled briefly downward. Then he shook his head, circlet glinting, and turned to the other elf. "Maker keep you as well, Zevran. Be careful."

Zevran spread his arms and bowed slightly. "My dear friend, I am the paragon of care. As you would know if you would let me-"

"Ah-hah-hah!" Alistair laughed loudly and slapped Zevran on the back with enough force to stagger the assassin. "Come back safe, but take your time."

Bann Teagan's farewells were mild, quietly respectful of Fenris and somewhat relieved toward Zevran.

At last, the trio joined Morrigan and prepared to enter the Eluvian's insubstantial gateway. Zevran snatched up his bucket and held it ready under one arm. Finn looked around himself with the expression of a hungry man surrounded by a banquet. He nearly balked at the Eluvian, to touch the deformation of reality with a wondering hand, but Zevran shoved him in. Grimacing, the Antivan followed after. Fenris breathed deeply, steeled himself, and entered.

/.\./.\

Morrigan abandoned them in a bare dockside shanty, with a beggar's ragged cowl to cover the conspicuous former Black Dog, a bag of provisions, and some final instructions. "Feynriel is waiting for you, Fenris," she said over Zevran's retching. "In the Fade. I suppose I should have brought you a pillow."

"I do not want anyone in my dreams," Fenris replied with a scowl.

"He's waiting for you," she said again, with an eloquent shrug. "'Tis up to you if you will go and meet him."

She departed, then, and the ripped bodice of reality sealed itself back together. Fenris was left glowering at empty space.

Finn immediately scrambled to the manifestation point, rolled up his sleeves, and started gathering samples of dirt from the rotted floorboards. The mage had a kit of sorts, a little metal box with delicate enamel inlays and miniscule hinges, full of arcane instruments. He chortled and muttered to himself as he performed obscure measurements on the samples and made more notes in his little book, all while sitting on his tiny, ridiculous chair.

Fenris, still somewhat queasy, dragged himself to one of the slanted walls, close enough to Zevran to rub a clawed finger on the assassin's calf. He rested for a time, his eyes on the bits of light streaming through the ceiling. He watched dust motes swirl through the air, familiarized himself with the new sounds and strange voices of the Nevarra City docks, and wrinkled his nose at the rank stench of dead fish, human waste, smoke and despair.

They recovered, eventually, and the assassin joined Fenris, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the camaraderie that had become so familiar and needed. "Will you meet him?" Zevran asked.

"I... suppose I must," Fenris muttered unhappily. He dragged a hand through his own white hair, finding it damp with sweat, though the shack was a reasonable temperature, if stuffy.

"Then I will watch you." Zevran patted his thigh. "You may lay your sweet head here."

Fenris snorted and twitched a dark brow. "_Sweet_ head?" he repeated.

Zevran shrugged and smirked shamelessly. "I felt I should specify which one, in case of confusion."

"Maker," Fenris sighed, covering his eyes.

"Not that I would mind, really, if you brought out your salty head, but if we make too much noise-"

"_Zevran_," the Tevinter hissed. "This is not going to help me sleep!"

"My mother used to sing to me to get me to sleep," Finn commented, looking up from his notes and phials. "You could try singing."

"Do you sing?" Zevran asked slyly. "I'm more of a hummer, myself."

The mage shook his red head. "I can sing some of the chants, but my voice isn't, um, spectacular."

"Pity," the assassin murmured. He smirked at Fenris. "No lullabies for you, my friend."

"Good." Fenris scowled. He removed Bloom and held the axe before him, one of her wicked edges between his knees as he stretched out against the wall. Against his better judgement, he did rest his head on Zevran's thigh. The chain mail and leather were surprisingly warm, like flesh, and the spicy scent of the Antivan helped to block out the Nevarran milieu.

When Zevran brushed some of the white hair from Fenris' brow, the Tevinter glared sideways. Zevran held up his hand and made a show of settling it elsewhere.

Fenris very determinedly closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

Several places on his body started to itch. Finn's writing became an incessant drone. Zevran's breathing was very loud. His ear ached. He sweated in his gauntlets. His stomach was tight, nervous; he was convinced that he would never wake up.

"Friend Finn," Zevran said, delicately, after some time. "Could you perhaps go and scout the area?"

"Pardon?" Zevran could have asked the man to strip and dance and it probably would have gotten the same response. Fenris couldn't see the mage's face, but the voice was surprise with a tinge of personal affront. "Out there? Alone? But there could be, uh, thieves or pirates or the undead!"

"Or undead pirate thieves," Zevran replied solemnly. "But how will we know unless you go out there and check?"

"It's bad enough in here," the mage complained. "I can't imagine what it'll be like out there."

"Well, you can't say I did not try," the Antivan said, his body shifting with a shrug. He fiddled with something, then his fingers were on Fenris' face.

Fenris slitted a gummy eye open. "Zev-" he started.

The Antivan kissed him, much like the night before, a soft searching, a gentle probing.

Finn made a shocked noise. "_Really_. Is this the _time_?"

Fenris thought the same, but Zevran was insistent, the tip of his tongue sliding along Fenris' lips, both uncomfortably hot and delightfully sweet.

That sweetness remained when Zevran lifted his head.

"Wait," Fenris muttered. "What was that? What did you do?"

The assassin smirked. "I did tell you there were many ways, my friend, to administer a poison."

"You drugged me?"

"A little bit."

Fenris stiffened and made to rise, but Zevran held him down and stroked his white hair.

"You need to sleep, yes? It will last an hour maybe."

Whatever Zevran had administered was already having an effect. The annoyances of thought and sensation were fading away. The Tevinter blinked sleepily at the Antivan above him.

"If Flora's undead pirate thieves burst in, you will shake it off, I assure you."

"H-hey! How do you know-"

"Hush. Fenris is trying to sleep." The assassin winked. "Rest well and deeply, my friend. I will watch over you."

He grudgingly yielded, because he knew it was necessary. Whatever sweet poison Zevran had given him wasn't obliterating his senses, his ability to move. Instead, he just felt drowsy and peaceful, floating.

Zevran and Finn's bickering continued, a hum of voices against the greater ebb and swell of Nevarra City. Fingers stroked gently, ceaselessly, through his hair, from temple to base, carefully avoiding the length of his ear. Fenris sighed and sank deeper, becoming boneless, until even the gritty wooden floor became comfortable.

"This isn't quite how I thought we'd meet again."

Fenris startled, eyes snapping open.

Where Zevran had been, Feynriel now sat, his expression mildly confused. He watched his own hand continue to pet the Tevinter elf and smiled slightly. "Dreams can be so awkward."

Fenris jerked away and rolled to his feet, bringing Bloom up with him. The mage remained on the floor, back to the wall, gazing calmly up at the full-blood. He had grown, if the image he projected was true to life. His very pale hair hung over his shoulder in a braid and his face had lost any remaining roundness of youth. The strange, hybrid adolescent had turned into an attractive man, square-jawed, face long and melancholy. He wore jewels on his brow, in a mesh of fine gold strands, and Fenris wondered if they were just for show or if they actually did something.

The robes he wore were of Tevinter style, Tevinter fabrics. Fenris grimaced at the sight. This was just another dreamstalker come to haunt him. "You look the part," he snarled. "Another magister's apprentice." He knew Feynriel was supposed to help, but Fenris was suddenly overcome with hatred, burning and writhing in his stomach and behind his eyes.

"Ah, my apologies. I... I should have remembered." Feynriel got to his feet, brushed his rich blue and red robes down, and then concentrated.

The robes flickered, dimmed and changed. The sight of the transformation made Fenris' head hurt, forcing him to blink and glance away. When he looked back, Feynriel was garbed in deceptively normal clothing, nothing more exciting than a dark, laced shirt, leather trousers and tall boots. Only the jewels adorning his head remained.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Fenris growled, clenching Bloom's shaft. "Then talk."

"Morrigan is a fine creature, isn't she?" the mage said thoughtfully.

Fenris stared, hostility momentarily forgotten. "What?"

"I've never met anyone quite like her. We... I think we have a connection." Feynriel shifted his weight onto one leg and rubbed his chin casually. "I really wanted to talk to someone who knows her."

Fenris gaped. "_What?!_"

The mage laughed. "I jest. Well. Mostly. Really, I just needed to go over the plan. Morrigan wasn't clear on anything other than 'I'm going to leave the fools in Nevarra.'" He adopted the witch's light accent, and for a moment his image rippled with hints of a red cowl, white skin, a black skirt. "Oh, she's just wonderful," he sighed. "Usually, I'm happy with dreams, but Morrigan... _Morrigan,_ I want to meet you."

The thought of a witch as powerful as Morrigan and a somniari mating made Fenris' insides squirm. "We go to Lord Fawnley tonight," Fenris interrupted before Feynriel's sickening demonstration could continue. "If it can be arranged, we wish to go into Anders' dreams tomorrow night."

The pale head nodded. "Good. That will give me time to prepare. Pulling three people into another man's mind will be... difficult."

A frown furrowed Fenris' dark brows. "But you can do it?"

"I think so."

"You... think so?" Fenris growled dangerously.

Feynriel held up his hands, expression pained. "I'm reasonably certain. Just... make sure you all sleep deeply. I may not be able to hold it together if one of you pulls out unexpectedly."

Fenris glowered for a moment longer before nodding. "We will. But... if you're just doing this to impress Morrigan..."

The half-blood laughed loudly. "No, no, of course not-"

"She does have a child. Did she tell you that?"

"What? No." Feynriel's face went blank.

The Tevinter sneered slightly and went on. "We _will_ be able to kill him," he asked.

"Yes." The somniari's expression turned sombre and speculative. "In the past, I've only given delusions and nightmares-" He held up his hands, palms out. "Only to, um, those who deserved it, of course. Criminals. I made them turn against each other."

Fenris' glower did not waver.

"Anyway, I haven't _killed_ anyone from the inside before. That requires going deep. Very deep. I'll need your help to go through the levels, to get to the abomination's heart, so to speak. It takes intimate knowledge with the subject to get past his barriers."

Fenris' knowledge could hardly get more intimate. He nodded. "Take me there," he said, "and I will kill him." He levelled a hard glare on the somniari. _It is only right that I do it._

"As you wish." Feynriel bowed his head once. "I won't stand in your way."

The warrior scrutinized the mage for a long moment, searching for deception, and found none. "Do you need anything else from me?" he demanded.

"No. I'll wait for you tomorrow night." Feynriel brushed down the front of his shirt and returned to his original place, sitting as Zevran had sat. "The transition is easier if you go out the way you came in," he explained and patted his leg. "You don't get that feeling of falling."

"I know," Fenris replied grimly. He couldn't count the number of times Danarius, Hadriana, Claudia or any of the other apprentices had thrown him off of mountain peaks or towers. "But that won't make me put my head in your lap, mage."

Feynriel chuckled. "As you wish. Farewell, serah Fenris." He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Even prepared for it, Fenris startled violently when he landed back in his body, badly enough that Finn made a small exclamation of surprise and Bloom dug painfully into his own leg. His stomach was somewhere in the back of his throat and his heart hammered against his ribs.

"Welcome back," Zevran murmured as Fenris rolled forward and pushed himself up.

Darkness licked the edges of Fenris' vision. He shook his head to dispel it. "Ugh."

"Easy, my friend. You have slept mere minutes. The drug is still very potent." Zevran tried to pull him back, but the Tevinter shrugged him off.

"Why aren't you sleeping, assassin?" he asked hoarsely. "You took the poison, too." He managed to get upright, with effort, and back against the wall.

"I have built an immunity to that particular mix," Zevran replied. "In such small doses, anyway." He shrugged. "Did you speak with the mage?"

"Yes. He will be ready. Or so he says." Fenris pulled a face. "I am having doubts about his abilities." He didn't like the thought of trusting the mission and his own sanity to a love-sick man barely out of adolescence.

"A little late now, is it not?" Zevran snagged their bag of provisions with his foot and pulled out a flask. "Drink this. It will make you feel better."

Fenris, realizing that he was terribly parched, took a swig, and nearly gagged on the sour, minty liquid. He coughed and only swallowed from habit. "Maker, why do I just _drink_ the things you hand me?"

"I ask myself the same question," Zevran replied, grinning widely. "But you feel better, yes?"

"More awake, anyway," the Tevinter growled. "Not necessarily _better_." He coughed again. "I don't want to know what that was."

"An ancient Antivan beverage," the assassin explained. "Fermented sheep's milk, lime and mint."

Fenris' stomach roiled. "I said I didn't want to know."

"You aren't like the other elves I've met," Finn commented, looking up from his book.

"And what elves have you met, friend Finn?"

"Well, there are the elves in the Circle," Finn began thoughtfully. "They're pretty quiet. Then there was the Warden, Maker hold him. And then I spent some months with the Dalish. They were fun. Lots of frolicking, lots of stories. A little too much, um, dirt, for my liking. Lots of mosquitoes. And if you're going to learn magic from them, they get you to, um, clean up after the halla." He shuddered. "Anyway, you're both a bit more..."

"Handsome?" Zevran purred.

"Angry?" Fenris growled.

"Well, you drink a lot. And you make people bleed. A lot."

"So did the Warden," Zevran pointed out.

"Yes, but that was all darkspawn." The mage shrugged nervously. "I was only making conversation, really. I guess I just don't know many elves from Antiva or Tevinter."

Finn lapsed into silence and neither elf picked up the conversation. After a few uncomfortable minutes, the mage turned his attention back to his notations and the elves rummaged a deck of cards from the bag.

They wiled away the daylight hours, eating when they were hungry ("Oh," the mage exclaimed upon investigating their provisions, "I love chicken!" "You will need salt," Zevran told him without looking up from his cards.) and keeping quiet. The action of the Nevarra City docks swirled around them, unseen but palpable, and Fenris kept an ear out for any sounds of their imminent detection. There was no way to tell where, exactly, they were, or whether someone might decide the shack was worth opening.

Eventually, Finn started to complain about the lack of light and Zevran complained that he needed to find a secluded corner, so Fenris stretched to his feet and decided that it was time to depart.

"Do you know where to go?" Zevran asked as Fenris wrapped himself in the ragged cowl, covering his hair, armour and tattoos. The assassin offered his unasked for assistance, tugging the material over Fenris' shoulders and arms and trying to get it unstuck from the profusion of spikes.

Fenris thought back, far back, to riding with the Warden, Anders and the obnoxious Orlesian woman through Nevarra City. He remembered very little, beyond the cool evening air, a sense of relief, and a growing awareness of Anders.

"I can probably find it," he hedged.

Finn and Zevran stared at him.

Fenris snorted, gathered his cowl and swept out.

"Probably?" he heard Finn murmur.

"Hush, Flora," Zevran responded.

"Don't call me that," the mage snapped waspishly.

"It is your name, no?"

"Ugh! I never should have told the Warden!"

/.\./.\

The deeper they went into Nevarra City, the more of Hawke's army they found wandering the streets. Most were the rowdy criminals with which Fenris was familiar: an assortment of humans and dwarves, a smattering of mages, and a few lean, hard-edged elves. He was careful to stay out of sight. Even with the borrowed cowl obscuring his identity, one of the soldiers may have taken exception to a traveller trying so obviously to cover himself.

In the city squares and at major intersections, Hawke's undead army waited in eerie silence. They stood at unmoving attention, bones gleaming yellow under their armour, their eyes smouldering embers in their ruined faces. There was no way to know what would set them into motion, so the trio avoided them as well as possible.

From what they saw as they skulked uphill from the docks to the more affluent parts of the city, Hawke had no compunction against allowing his army to run loose. Finn walked with his gaze on the ground, his cheek pale, to avoid seeing the dead or, which was often worse, the still-alive. Fenris and Zevran, accustomed to the atrocities of war, kept a grim and careful watch.

"He is no conqueror," Zevran commented at one point, as they crept carefully over a heap of garbage. "He is a destroyer."

"He does not want the city," Fenris agreed under his breath from behind the assassin. Under his bare soles, the garbage trembled violently. Immediately, he reached back and steadied Finn before the human could fall amongst the wooden shards, rotting plants and... other things.

"Thank you," the redhead mumbled.

"Step where we step," Fenris murmured sternly.

The mage's expression pulled down in his misery. The alley was dark, save from what light came from far-off fires, and Fenris abruptly realized that the human probably couldn't see. "I'm trying-" Finn started.

"Hold onto me," Fenris interrupted. "When you cannot see, hold onto me or Zevran." The idea was repugnant to the elf, but they could not afford discovery.

Finn started to protest, but Fenris ignored him and placed the mage's hand on his own hip, to clutch at his belt. Continuing forward, he was slightly off-balance, but assured that Finn wasn't going to come crashing down and alert every soldier of Hawke's army.

They eventually came to the aristocrats' quarter. The splintered gates of most estates hung open. Smoke hung in the air; long-limbed silhouettes moved at the ends of the broad streets, back-lit by flickering fires. A constant background of laughter and crying trembled on the edge of Fenris' hearing.

"This is a nightmare," Finn said hoarsely. "Maker, help us all."

"Clench your buttocks, Flora," Zevran responded, glancing back over his shoulder. "It will only get worse."

Fenris padded forward, head turning and gaze roaming ceaselessly over the stained walls and devastated yards. One of these estates belonged to Fawnley, but he recognized none of the broken statuary or singed gates, nor any turn of the streets. When they reached one of the central squares, where the formerly delicate fountain was now bloated with rubbish and Nevarran citizens, the Tevinter stopped in the shadows under a wall and scowled.

"Problem?" Zevran asked, coming alongside the other elf. His own eyes were on the five cadavers grinning on the other side of the square.

"Too many to count," Fenris replied harshly. He peered out at the gaping mouths of the other streets, wondering which held their destination. He hadn't noticed, his first time here, how much this district dwarfed Hightown.

"You are lost."

"I am thinking."

"About how lost you are."

"Lost?" whimpered Finn, sliding close enough to hear the elves. "We can't be lost. You're supposed to know where to go!"

"Buttocks," Zevran reminded the human sharply. "Clench them!"

Finn breathed deeply. "Right," he said. He made a face, but sounded more calm. "Maybe... Maybe you could try a mnemonic? Like... Retrace your steps, hum your favourite song and think of your mother?"

The elves boggled at him.

Finn shrugged. "It works for me when I get lost."

"I am not-" Fenris cut off his growl when the jumbled sound of footsteps echoed from the square. He immediately swung out an arm to push Finn further into the shadows. Zevran disappeared.

It was a troop of Hawke's living army, reeking of revelry and plunder. Fenris watched them enter the square from another passage and waited for them to continue through. There were at least a dozen, enough to make a fight inadvisable, at least in the open where five of the undead might join in.

Instead of passing on, though, the group headed toward the trio.

The elf tensed and gripped Finn's arm to keep the mage still and silent. Though there were a few thin, wary elves in the group, Fenris was certain that he and the mage would remain unseen so long as they drew no attention to themselves. Then, once the group had gone by, they could continue the search.

Several thoughts occurred to Fenris in quick succession, leaving him momentarily stunned. He didn't have long to mull them over, though, before his chance would be lost. So, while his mind screamed that his idea was idiocy, while his heart started to hammer a tempo of fear and violence, he followed the urging of his gut.

"Stay here." Fenris swept aside his cowl and shoved it into Finn's arms.

"But," the mage started.

Fenris ignored him. The elf stalked out of the shadows and put himself directly in the path of the rowdy patrol. He waited in the street, arms crossed over his breastplate, white head lifted, green eyes narrowed. The fires of conquest lit upon him, revealing every distinctive feature of the Tevinter.

The group came to a ragged halt before him, whispers running between them. He didn't recognize the men and women-a handful of dwarves, a swordman and a mage-so it was a risk, but he did enjoy a good wager.

"Atten_tion_!" Fenris barked before those whispers and glittering, contemplative eyes could become a threat.

At least half didn't move. The rest shuffled into some semblance of confused order. Then one, a human, urgently hissed, "The Black Dog General!"

The group immediately fell in and saluted.

Fenris hid his relief behind a sneer. Hawke must not have foreseen the elf's return.

"Look at you," he drawled, lip curling. "You're disgusting." He paced before them, looking each figure up and down. "Those dusty corpses make a better army. You lot can't even hold the ass-scratchers you call weapons."

The group took the abuse with lowered heads and shuffling boots. The largest and boldest glanced up with venom in their glares, but the born criminals didn't have the balls to challenge him.

"We invade a house tonight," Fenris went on after a lengthy examination. He stopped in front of them, his stance relaxed and arrogant, as Hawke had made him stand so often in the past. "Fawnley. You know of it?"

"Yes, ser," answered the rabble.

"Of course you do." Fenris snorted loudly, lifting a disdainful brow. "I hear it is where Nevarra keeps her whores." He nodded. Casually, he flicked a clawed finger toward one soldier; the weakest, if he was any judge. "You. Go ahead of me. My herald said something stupid and fell into the river. In pieces."

The scrawny human male blanched. The rest of the group melted away from their fellow. When he glanced back, he found himself alone to face Fenris' attention. With some modicum of bravery, he offered a shaky salute. "Now, ser?"

"Now," Fenris replied grimly.

The man started forward and, after a moment of his head going this way and that on his thin neck, he chose a direction and started walking, back the way Fenris had come. The Tevinter followed silently, his glower never leaving the back of the soldier's head. The rest of the troop, after a short delay, trailed after.

They covered only one street that Fenris had already led his group down, which somewhat assuaged his embarrassment at losing his way. The young soldier took them along two more passages before turning at one of the gaping entrances. They did not encounter another group, which was highly fortunate; there was no way to tell who, if anyone, knew the fate of General Fenris.

Lord Fawnley's mansion sprawled beyond charred gates and a trampled garden, far different from the well-maintained estate Fenris had visited before. The siege and the occupation had done little for the place.

The scrawny soldier led Fenris to the main door and looked back at the elf in the ruddy light. "Fawnley got a license from the Viscount to do business," he said. "We aren't supposed to break in. Do I knock... ser?" As he spoke, his gaze wandered from Fenris. His eyes widened at the mere five other soldiers waiting in the dim shadows behind them and his voice trailed off.

Fenris smiled. He had heard the slight scuff, the stifled breath, of each man and woman Zevran had removed.

The other soldiers looked around themselves and cursed their surprise and unease.

"Yes," Fenris rumbled nonchalantly. "Knock."

The man swallowed, lifted a fist and pounded.

The sound echoed in the vast house.

It was followed by a significant thud on the paving stones.

Zevran stood over the body of one of the mages, his dagger dark in the ambient light. "I would have killed more on the way over," he explained, "but I ran out of places to hide them."

"Ser?" whimpered the scrawny soldier.

Distastefully, Fenris addressed him, "Shut up and you might live."

The other four, not so timid, swarmed the laughing assassin. Zevran danced away, threw a miasma flask, and disappeared from sight. A bright spirit bolt flashed from out of the nearby bushes and slammed into one of the stunned dwarves.

Fawnley's door opened.

Fenris ignored the fight and turned his attention to Lord Fawnley's familiar, displeased butler. The man looked a bit ragged around the edges in the light from his lantern, as though he had run out of thread to repair his stern facade. Despite this, he managed to lift his hooked nose at the elf, the young soldier and the battle raging behind them.

"The mademoiselles have retired for the night," he said stiffly. "These doors are closed to you until morning."

Someone died rather noisily. Fenris waited for the death rattle to finish before replying. "I'm here for Fawnley."

The butler's silver brows twitched upward. "The Viscount was made aware that further treatment of that type would result in Lord Fawnley's death. His corpse would not command a ransom price."

It took a moment to puzzle that through. Fenris grimaced. "I need to speak with him," he clarified in a low growl.

"Well, if he is attractive..." Zevran commented, sauntering up next to the Tevinter. He used the small human soldier's grubby shirt to wipe clean his longsword and dagger before sheathing them. When he glanced up at the butler, he chuckled. "Do not look at me so, silver vulture. I jest, I jest!"

"I doubt that," Finn commented darkly. His voice was uneven after the battle, but he was still standing.

"You are not the Viscount's men?" asked the Orlesian.

"This one is." Zevran shoved the small soldier forward. "Would you like him? He is not hideous. Perhaps you can offer him to the next of Hawke's criminals to come to your door?"

"Oi! I'll gut you, knife-ear!" The man whirled, drawing a blade.

Fenris slammed a hand into the soldier's throat with enough force to send him flying through the door, where he crumpled onto the marble floor.

The butler, having stepped back, regarded Fenris, Zevran and the mage coolly. The corner of his mouth twitched. He bowed slightly and waved for them to enter. "Would you please come in, meseres?"

/.\./.\

Marjolaine considered the trio with sultry seriousness. She lounged on a low couch, a wine glass in one graceful hand. That glass was empty, but she held it close to her face, anyway, like a shield or a mask. "There may be a way," she said, her luxurious accent at odds with the ruin of Fawnley's sitting room.

"Of course." Zevran nodded toward Fenris. "Did I not say a bard could find a way?"

"You said 'may.'" Fenris examined the woman closely.

"It will take some skill. More importantly, though, it will take... determination."

"What is the way you speak of?" Fawnley asked. He was an elegant, grey-haired man, garbed in subdued tones. Though he smoothed his mustachios and beard frequently, he otherwise hid his recent ill-treatment well.

"What other way is there?" She rubbed the stem of her glass as she thought. "The Viscount is a cruel man. If you wish to sneak a poison in beneath his notice, it must be in an act of cruelty."

"Well, that may work for him, but it's the abomination who needs to drink the potion."

"Then Anders must be the tool of cruelty."

A gust of annoyance worked its way from Fenris' chest. "Enough riddles," he grumbled.

Marjolaine smirked. "Of course, serah elf. What I am saying is... You cannot give the man, Anders, poison in food or drink. However, in the body of a man or woman..."

"Hawke would not give his General to anyone," Fenris argued.

"Not if it would give pleasure," the bard agreed. "However, if it were an act of cruelty, the Viscount may be persuaded, yes?" She lifted her free hand. The movement pulled her sleeve up, revealing a swath of bruises on her white arm. "Silvain," she called gently. The butler straightened and immediately approached. "Summon Marilyn down to join us, please."

"Mademoiselle de Montrouge is sleeping," the butler protested mildly.

"Yes."

Silvain blinked once at the abrupt answer. Then, "As you wish, madam." He bowed once and strode from the great room.

While they waited, Fawnley told them of the siege and the occupation that followed.

"The Nevarrans turned against any foreign presence," the Orlesian spy told them. "The city was full and completely surrounded, the King unprepared. The people were starving. When Hawke's undead rose from the Necropolis and approached the walls, there was a terrible frenzy within. The Viscount sent one of his Generals, Aleksandr, to speak with the King. They offered... Peace. The King refused, but the city itself rose up to demand an end to the siege."

"Traitors," Finn muttered from his little folding chair. Fawnley had a dearth of furniture and the mage had refused to let his rear touch the stained, singed couches and cushions.

"They were hungry," Zevran chided, rousing himself from his own cushion, next to Fenris. "When have you starved, Serah Circle Mage? When have you watched your children starve?"

The mage blinked, opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked away.

"And so here we are. Thank Andraste that I was established enough that they did not suspect me a foreigner. So long as I freely gave of my personal stores, they left my household well enough alone." Fawnley spread his hands, indicating the loss of richness and decoration in his home.

"When the Viscount's army got in, that all changed." With careful grace, Marjolaine shifted onto her other hip. "You can see his mark everywhere. Any citizen who did not immediately surrender was killed or tortured. The nobility were forced to either give up their homes or become... hosts... to the Viscount's soldiers. There was no peace."

"Of course not," Fenris said. "You would have better luck begging mercy from a demon."

"There's no way to know how much longer we will survive," Fawnley admitted. He sighed wearily and smoothed his mustachios.

"Hawke won't be here for long."

The others looked to him hopefully. "Because you will kill him soon, yes?" Marjolaine asked.

Fenris shook his head. "I will try, but that is unlikely. But his goal is elsewhere. The conquest of Nevarra is a distraction. A gift for the Imperium, so that Hawke can continue on his way, unimpeded."

There was a moment of disturbed quiet.

The butler returned, Marilyn trailing listlessly behind him. She looked around with huge, bruised eyes. She was a changed creature from the vibrant, obnoxious Orlesian Fenris had once known. Now she was an injured thing, worn thin. Her hair had lost its luster and it hung around her narrow shoulders.

"Again?" she murmured upon entering the room.

"No, child," Marjolaine said. "Come and sit with me." She patted the blotchy velvet of the couch beside her.

Marilyn obeyed. Only once she was perched on the edge of the divan did her pinched face angle up to observe the visitors. Her gaze passed over Finn with no interest, over Zevran with distaste, and then settled on Fenris. Her cheeks spasmed. "You," she uttered.

Fenris gazed on her coolly, pity and disinterest warring in his breast.

"You were with him," she whispered and her entire body quivered in its lacy white gown. "That... that _thing_."

"Anders," Fenris hazarded.

"Do not say that name!" she suddenly shrieked. She clapped her hands over her ears and bowed forward over her knees. "Do not say it!"

Marjolaine put an arm around the girl's bony shoulders. "She was there when the Viscount's pet mage brought the Pentaghasts down. It was an act of bloody treachery."

"Those hands were on me, once," Marilyn continued raggedly, peering up at Fenris. "I... I hate myself for it. And I hate him even more!"

"You threw yourself on him," Fenris reminded her, green eyes narrowing.

"He took advantage of my naivety!"

"What naivety?"

"Serah," Marjolaine interjected mildly. "It is not in your interest to reason with the mademoiselle. I assure you..." She stroked Marilyn's thick brown hair back from her narrow face. "The Viscount will hunger for her hatred."

"What?" Marilyn flinched away and stared at the older woman warily.

"Easy, child. I need your help for bard's work. You want to help me, right? I cannot do this mission without you..."

"Bard's work?" the girl repeated, brightening.

Marjolaine cast a sweetly troubled expression toward Fenris. Her eyes seemed ancient and tired. "The Viscount accepts tribute in Pentaghasts' Square every day before his evening meal. Come and watch tomorrow. If he takes us, you will know the mage will sleep that night."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I am a bard." She pet Marilyn's hair and her hand trembled just slightly. "This is what I am trained for."

/.\./.\

Fenris discovered what Marjolaine had planned late the next day. Heavily cloaked and cowled, the elf crouched on the corner of a rooftop like a ragged gargoyle. The sun descended, fat and red, toward the horizon, painting the city with long, black shadows. Pentaghasts' Square was full of Hawke's rowdy army and frightened, angry Nevarran nobility. Here, Hawke and two of his Generals, the mage Aleksandr and the glowing Anders, had held their court since the afternoon. From what Fenris had seen, the Tevinters had arrived and Hawke was negotiating his reward for capturing the city.

More than once, Fenris felt a tremble of anxiety when he looked upon his former lovers. He expected to feel some irresistible urge to approach them, to kneel for them as he had before. The urge did not come, though. The only strong emotion he felt, looking over that tumultuous crowd, was disgust. Whatever Morrigan had done, whatever path his own bare feet had tread, he was free.

There was one moment, when the Tevinters swept across the square, where Fenris thought he spotted the gleam of Danarius' white hair amongst the magisterial robes. At that moment his gaze shrank and his blood roared. He had to clutch the stone of the roof to keep from diving off and attacking. _I could kill him now._ The thought echoed in his mind.

He shook his head roughly. _No, no... Hawke is the greater threat now..._

Then the Magister turned his head and Fenris startled to see that the figure was an aged woman. Danarius had not come at all.

Toward the end, there was a commotion on one side of the square, in the direction of Fawnley's estate. Hawke's army parted to allow a group of Nevarrans to pass. Within their midst, a brown-haired Orlesian woman struggled and screamed.

"I will not!" she called. "Unhand me!" Two men held her, one a dark-headed youth, the other an elder blond. Before her strode the mature and graceful Marjolaine, the slightly stooped Fawnley, and a half dozen other Orlesian men and women.

Hawke's men laughed and taunted the writhing Orlesian girl and her escort, but did not impeded their progress to the Viscount.

When they reached Hawke, under a golden canopy and seated in a great, cushioned throne, they bowed and curtseyed and forced Marilyn to her knees. She shook in the grip of the two men.

"How pleasant," Hawke said, his voice travelling unerringly to Fenris' ear. The elf shivered at it, the strength and the evil.

Fawnley said something that Fenris couldn't hear. Marjolaine spoke as well.

"Of course, we accept your kind gift," Hawke replied, lifting a black gauntlet to his shoulder. "Do we not, Anders? I think she likes you."

The abomination obeyed the cue like a well-trained mabari. He stepped forward and rested his own hand on Hawke's.

'We are as one,' that posturing said. 'Inseparable and unstoppable.'

Marilyn wailed and collapsed to the dirty ground, her arms over her head.

The other General, a jet-haired mage bearing a staff of stone eyes, shifted and spoke. Hawke laughed and gestured toward the group of Orlesians.

"The girl and the blond are ours," the Viscount said. "Have first pick of the rest, Aleksandr. The others go to the army."

The rabble filling the courtyard roared their approval.

At some silent cue, Marilyn, the blond youth and another young female were singled out and brought forward. The others—Marjolaine, Fawnley, and his Orlesian escort—stood erect and proud, chins lifted. They did not flinch as the criminal army swarmed over them.

Sickened, Fenris turned away.


	28. Chapter 28

**NOTICE: I made some revisions in chapters 24, 25, 26 and 27. **I recommend going back and maybe skimming those chapters; Fenris' opinions and his intentions have changed slightly, though the plot and most of the dialogue are the same. Apologies!

**Warnings:** Strange dream sequences, reference to non-consensual smexx, violence (surprise, surprise). General weirdness, but stick with me. I'm going somewhere with this, honest.

**Summary:** Journey to the Center of the Anders.

**Playlist Recommendation:  
**Rusty Cage – Parasomnia

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Twenty-eight**

As the sun finally disappeared and Nevarra City's fires brightened, Fenris, Zevran and Finn prepared for the night's venture. Fawnley's house echoed around them, empty but for the butler and the three guests. They ate a meal that Silvain had somehow found in the abandoned cellars, something dry and salty, and then lay on stained mattresses in a back room.

"Reminds me of home," Zevran commented, toeing his mattress.

Finn shuddered convulsively and continued casting something on his. "I would rather clean up after halla," he muttered.

"I do apologize, serahs," Silvain said dryly from the door. "The laundry girl is on a pike three streets over. Well, all but her head, anyway."

"Oh, Maker." The mage covered his eyes with a shaking hand. "I can't bear this place..."

Fenris pressed his lips together. He had no pity for the man, not after all he had seen, knowing the sacrifice that had made this night possible. The Tevinter ignored the stains; some blood, some unnameable. He took Bloom in hand and lay on his back. After a moment of shifting, he was moderately comfortable.

"Easy, friend Finn," Zevran said. "All will be well soon enough. We go in, we do as we must, and we will be one step closer to freeing this city, no? You will be a hero."

Fenris stared up at the molded plaster ceiling. Through the corner of his eye, he watched Zevran put an arm reassuringly around the mage. The assassin urged Finn onto the middle mattress.

"Would you like to pillow your head on my shoulder?" the elf continued.

Finn's distress must have been great. Instead of shock or anger, he responded only with a brief head shake and a deep breath. "No, thank you. I... I will be all right."

"I know you will."

The other two lay back.

"Ready?" Fenris asked.

"Always," Zevran purred.

"Maker's breath," Finn whimpered.

Fenris rolled a vial of Zevran's green potion in his hand. "Then let's go." With his teeth, he pulled the stopper out. Before he could hesitate, he swallowed the sweet, sticky contents.

Finn coughed. "Ugh, this is disgusting."

Zevran chuckled.

Fenris closed his eyes on his irritation. The flavour of the potion went from sweet to earthy, tasting as green as it looked. He could taste it on his tongue, in the air itself.

A cool, moist breeze kissed his cheek.

Fenris sat up and rose to a crouch, clenching Bloom's shaft. The clawed fingers of his other hand buried in long, green grass and damp mulch. Next to him, Finn lay curled on his side, his arms and knees around his staff, his eyes squeezed shut and brows drawn together. On Finn's other side, Zevran stretched languorously in the grass, a smile on his handsome face.

"Go to sleep, little lamb, the morning's soon to come." Finn's lips moved and he sang in a whisper. "Dream a dream of moon and peace before you see the sun."

Fenris got to his feet, toes wiggling happily. Even dream grass was nicer than city streets. "Finn," he said, low-voiced. "You are already asleep."

The mage's eyes opened. He gasped, scrambled onto hands and knees and gaped at the grass under his palms.

"Much nicer than where we lay our heads," Zevran commented. "I would go for a roll here."

"You would go for a roll anywhere."

"It is nice, isn't it?" Feynriel's deep voice called from uphill. The somniari, wearing the dark plainclothes and golden headpiece in which he had appeared before, a crystalline staff in hand, strode through a stone gateway and paced down toward them. "Anders is a rich dreamer; his mind is mostly in the Fade." He shrugged, smirked, and tossed back his pale blond braid. "Of course, it helps that I'm really, really good at this."

Zevran made an appreciative noise. "Why, hello," he murmured.

Fenris rolled his eyes and looked around. They had appeared on a grassy slope, surrounded by ruined stone walls and a starry night sky. Downhill, the grass terminated at a black lake, a small dock jutting out, a boat bobbing at the end of its tether.

"Where are we?" the Tevinter wondered aloud.

"Lake Calenhad," Finn responded. "Um. Pre-Hawke. That building doesn't exist anymore." He pointed at a large wooden structure with the sign of an inn hanging above the door. He turned toward the lake, the full moon rippling on its surface. "The Circle Tower is out there."

"So we'll need the boat," Fenris guessed. He started away. The others trailed after, Finn's head swivelling and Zevran continuing to speckle Feynriel with compliments and loosely veiled invitations. The night was quiet, though, and suspiciously un-Fade-like. "Are you sure we're in his dream?" he asked the somniari. He stepped onto the dock and tested the wooden boards with a few bounces on the balls of his feet. It felt firm.

"Does this answer your question?" Feynriel stooped beside the Tevinter and reached for the hank of hemp rope tethering the boat. His hand passed through it.

"Oh, that's great," Finn sighed, still on shore. "If Anders is anywhere, he'll be at the Tower. And we can't get there without the boat. Or swimming, I suppose." He looked at the water with distaste.

"That's not how dreams work," Feynriel argued. He straightened and tossed his braid back. "The distance we cross isn't what's important. We need to help the dreamer progress through dream events and work our way inward."

"But where is he and where will he progress?"

Feynriel wasn't able to reply before they heard the sounds of a struggle.

"No! I don't want to go!" The young voice cracked and echoed from the surrounding stonework. "Get off of me! Maker take you!"

The quartet turned. At the top of the hill two heavily armed and armoured templars appeared, a child hanging and kicking between them. It was a strange trio; the templars were only partially there. Fenris could see the stars through them until they stomped further down the hill. The boy, though, a filthy blond scruff in rough peasant's garb, looked as real as the waiting dream walkers.

"I'll set you on fire!" the child threatened. "I'll shrink your, your... your _you-know-what_!"

"And there he is," Feynriel said. "Your precious Anders."

The templars were laughing. Their voices were only faint and echoing to Fenris, but Anders winced when they boomed at him. "Quiet, kid. You passed the minimum age for Tranquility two months ago."

Fenris' mind immediately tumbled over the past, the six years in Kirkwall with the mage as a thorn in his side, the month of travel, the six months where Anders was a fellow prisoner... He wondered what would have happened if the mage had been made Tranquil at such a young age. So much would not have been. So much trouble and strife. So much joy.

He shook his head and glanced sharply at the somniari. "What do we do?"

Feynriel watched the trio approach as he replied. "Dreams are cyclical, like memories. They'll play, over and over again, unless something stops them. If we want to go on, we need to help Anders get past this obstacle."

"It looks like the obstacle is himself," Finn commented disdainfully. "Maybe we need to get him to the Tower."

The templars and their burden passed by without heeding the watching men. When they climbed the dock, one of the templars went to untie the boat and the other threw Anders face down on a bench and sat on the slim figure.

"I'll freeze your blighted balls off!" the boy squalled.

"What a lovely child," Zevran said. "I see why you liked him, Fenris."

"Get in the boat," Feynriel ordered. "Quickly!"

As the first templar swore at and finally untangled the rope, the quartet hurried over and boarded. It was a tight fit, but the templars continued to ignore their new passengers. Fenris carefully crawled to the prow and sat on the unsteady edge, close to Anders' head where it hung out from under the templar's weight. The blond youth, flushed with rage, his hair a dandelion mess, suddenly focused on the elf and scowled.

"Are you just going to sit there?" he demanded. "Help me!"

Fenris startled. The voice was nearly the Anders he knew, the arrogance and confidence. The Tevinter looked to Feynriel, where the dreamstalker perched with Zevran near the stern, hoping for some direction.

"He has to get to the Tower," Feynriel called.

Fenris frowned, but nodded his understanding. With a slight twinge at the lie, he spoke. "I _am_ helping you," he told the adolescent. This Anders couldn't have been more than thirteen.

"Are you? Good! In about two minutes I'm going to electrocute this flaming bastard." The mage grinned fiendishly, a light in his youthful brown eyes. It was the light Fenris saw whenever Anders did something he was especially proud of, like healing a kitten or convincing some random passerby to take a copy of his manifesto.

"Don't do it," Fenris immediately snapped. He could almost see it play out in his mind's eye. If Anders fought back, they would reset this whole mess and wind up on shore again.

"What? I thought you were going to help me." The templar shifted his weight. Anders hissed and tried to twist. "Watch it!" he snarled. "Get off of me before I set you on fire! You're going to steam in that armour like a crab!"

"Shut it," drawled the templar and administered a disciplinary swat to the back of the head.

The youth cried out, more in rage than pain, and went limp for a moment, blinking rapidly. When he looked up again, his eyes were wet as he glared at Fenris. "You see?!" he demanded. "I have to get out of here!"

"No," Fenris said. The elf moved closer, sliding down to kneel by the boy's head. "Anders, you cannot escape them. You must go to the Tower."

"No!" Anders shook his head violently. "I won't go back!"

Fenris took that fair head and turned it, gently and irresistibly, so he could stare into the young face. "You cannot run," he insisted. "Anders. You cannot run from this. If you run, history will... it will repeat itself. Over and over. The only way to end it is to face it."

The words rang true. They shuddered even in Fenris' heart; they had been learned through years of running and never being free. He could not flinch from his responsibility.

Anders stilled.

The templar sitting on him noticed. "No more fight?" he laughed, much to the amusement of his comrade. "And here I was looking forward to dumping you in the lake for the kelpies."

Anders glared, but he was glaring at Fenris, and it was a stare of perseverance. Of trust. _I believe you_, he seemed to say. _I will not run._

Something pulled at Fenris' stomach. _Maker_, the elf thought mournfully. _We've led each other to our ends._

"Hold on!" Feynriel shouted.

There was nothing to hold onto. The boat vanished, the lake vanished, even the stars went out.

There was darkness.

Then there was stone and torchlight as the quartet landed, hard, in a curving passageway. Fenris propped himself up against one cool wall; he had managed to land on his feet, but his soles stung from the impact. The others had to pick themselves, muttering and cursing, up off the floor.

"We're in the Tower!" Finn exclaimed happily, shaking out his robe.

"I like your staff," Zevran murmured as he conscientiously helped Feynriel up.

The somniari's expression was discomfited and he leaned away from the assassin.

"What now?" Fenris asked, glancing about. He spotted a glowing object and edged toward it; it was a golden orb on an ornate stand, with many flat, metal circles slowly revolving around it.

"We wait for the dreamer—don't touch that!"

Fenris paused, his clawed fingers close to the metal circles. "What is it?"

"Very rare." Feynriel hurried toward him. "You only find them in the most powerful-"

The somniari's tone was anxious and eager.

_Power, of course._ Fenris sneered and touched the glow.

It vanished as though it had never been, and the rotating ornament went dead. Fenris formed a fist and felt... something. Some kind of strength. It settled into his bones and firmed the uneasiness in his chest and belly.

"Ah!" Feynriel halted beside the elf and swore. "I told you not to touch it!" His calm expression briefly screwed into a dark scowl before smoothing away. "It could have been dangerous," the somniari added belatedly.

"Could it?" Fenris folded his arms and stared coolly at the halfbreed. _You wanted it, mage._

The uneasy tableau was interrupted by the patter of quick feet. A familiar figure rounded the curve of the hall, pelting toward them. "Andraste's singed buttock!" Anders ran past the quartet, staff in one hand and robe lifted in the other, revealing his very un-regulatory boots. He tripped, once, close enough to Fenris that the Tevinter nearly reached out, but regained his footing with a muttered, "Blighted robes. Never again!"

"Missing classes could set the templars on you," Finn explained. "Follow him!"

Fenris was already on the move, Zevran a step behind. They sprinted after the fleeing mage.

Anders tore up three flights of stairs and halfway around the tower before coming to a halt in front of a closed door. He took four gasping breaths, straightened his robe, settled his shoulders, and opened the door.

"Apprentice," snapped a hard, female voice. "You're late for the exam. You only have five minutes to finish it. Orally."

Fenris and the others crowded in behind the dreaming mage. The room was large, larger than it should have been, and held row after row of black-topped desks. Behind each desk sat a ghostly figure, a vague student, all of them bearing expressions of disgust, contempt, or amusement.

The teacher was a lean female form, cowled and grimacing. "If you fail, you will be made Tranquil."

Anders' young face dropped into a look of agony and fear.

"Didn't you study?" Finn demanded.

"No!" Anders cried. "I hate this history stuff."

"Apprentice!" The instructor's voice was like a lash. Behind her, the hulking figures of two huge, faceless templars loomed out of the ether. "When did the Circle of Magi gain control of this tower?"

The young mage flinched back, blushing and then going pale. "Uh, I, I don't..."

Finn made an impatient noise. "Maker's breath, Anderfels, don't you remember this? It's 3:87 Towers!"

"3:87 Towers," Anders repeated desperately.

The teacher blinked. "That... is correct." Then she scowled. "Who was the first Divine?"

"Olessa de Montsimmard," Finn immediately said. "Named Justinia."

With a small flash of gratitude, Anders repeated the answer.

This went on for several minutes, with the questions coming faster, and Finn answering in a voice verging on a holler. The red-haired mage was smiling, a light in his eye, colour high in his fair cheeks.

"He is enjoying this too much," Zevran commented.

"Everyone needs a hobby," Feynriel responded.

Fenris lifted a dark brow. "You sound like Morrigan," he said.

"I do?" The dreamstalker grinned hugely and Fenris regretted mentioning it.

Finally, Anders gave an answer to something so complex that Fenris knew only about one out of twenty of the words that flowed off of his tongue in response to Finn's prompting. The teacher was silent. The ghostly class was silent. Anders stood and fidgeted, rubbing his palms over his thighs.

"Apprentice Anders," the woman boomed, "you have passed."

Anders sagged, hanging off of his staff, and vanished.

Colour and form drained away, leaving the walkers suspended in limbo, and then slammed back into place. Fenris stumbled onto a soft carpet.

"Oh, how interesting," Zevran murmured, followed by a sound of shock and indignation from Finn and a laugh from Feynriel.

Fenris should have expected it; they were travelling higher through Anders' memories and dreams, after all.

They were in a room. The actual dimensions and furnishings were variable, slipping and sliding at the edges of Fenris' vision, as though his gaze was the only force keeping the objects in place. A few features were stable, though. There was a bed. Or multiple beds. There was Anders, very nearly an adult and very naked. There were also a lot of other people lingering around the edges of the scene.

"Is this a good idea?" the blond mage murmured to the insubstantial figure in his arms. They lay on a narrow bed, barely more than a cot. He was breathless, his hands roving over what appeared to be female flesh.

"No," the figment answered, laughing. "But that's what makes it fun." They rolled until the woman straddled Anders' bare hips. Her back to the dream walkers, Fenris could see Anders' ecstatic expression and pale gold skin through the woman's torso. She undulated and the mage gasped. "Besides, I know how to prevent complications."

"Of course," Anders chuckled. "That's why you're the teacher."

"I can't watch this," Finn said, covering his eyes.

"You might learn something, Flora," Zevran said delightedly. "Look at that rhythm, that hard touch, that _depth_." The elf grinned at Fenris and said, again, "I can see why you-"

"Shut up, Zevran," Fenris snapped. He didn't want to watch this either. It made him feel sick with hatred, longing, envy and fear. "Feynriel, how do we get past this?"

The pale half-blood startled and regarded the Tevinter, blinking and flushing. "Er, stop it from happening?"

Anders released a loud groan.

"Oh, Maker help me," Finn cried and crouched down, covering his head. "Just tell me when it's over!"

Another ghostly figure approached the dreamer and the female faded away. This one was male. The room changed, distorting into a larger, more luxurious chamber. The figure was broad shouldered and, though faceless, gave the impression of a strong jaw and a mean brow.

"You've been a naughty mage," the figure chuckled, approaching the dreamer.

"Can we just get this over with?" Anders asked. He stood, folded his arms and cocked a naked hip.

The templar snorted. "Eager, are we?"

"I have to go study."

Without warning, the larger figure struck the mage in the stomach. Though he looked insubstantial, the sound of his fist impacting flesh and the effects were very real. Anders doubled over, gasping and coughing.

"Those aren't the right words," the figure said quietly, dangerously.

The blond mage slowly straightened, a hand splayed over his abdomen. His expression was pained and furious. He licked his lips and recited dully, "I'm a naughty mage, but I can make your dreams come true."

"How would you do that?" the memory asked slyly. He took Anders' arms in large hands and nudged their bodies together.

"The very forces of nature," the mage said slowly, "will bend to your bidding."

"And?" The translucent face was very close to Anders'.

Anders tilted his head down. "And so will I."

"You're just going to corrupt me."

"You? But you're incorruptible." Anders sneered the words, brown eyes flashing up, bright with subdued, primal forces.

"I can't resist anymore." The figure engulfed Anders in its transparent arms.

While the walkers looked on in shock, fascination, disgust and, for Fenris' part, roiling anger, Anders went through a variety of lovers. Some were mere laughing flings, others were more like torture, and only the rare few were genuine.

Karl, Fenris recognized the older mage, was an oasis of gentility and friendship. He was torn away, though, violently. Cruelly.

The Warden's voice, from so very, very long ago, muttered a quiet recrimination in Fenris' mind. _He thinks he is alone. Because he always has been. Little wonder he threw me away... Blind idiot!_

The Tevinter shook his head. _It doesn't matter anymore. You know what you have to do!_

The room swam around them, prompting Zevran to murmur, once or twice, "I have been here! I think this is the Pearl!"

As time went on, Fenris, too, recognized the features of this nightmare bedchamber. There were bits and pieces of Tevinter architecture, accompanied by the melting pot affectation of Kirkwall.

Fenris' stomach and throat tightened as the next figure came forward. It was a bearded man, a vibrant and powerful man, so charismatic that his dream image was nearly real. "I need you, Anders," he said. "Help me."

"I don't remember him being quite so tall," Feynriel muttered. "Or muscular."

"It is a dream," Zevran responded and shrugged.

"We have to stop this," Fenris said, and it came out as a whine, a plea. He watched Anders and the Hawke figment dance around each other, saw desire and need in the mage, and knew where this would lead.

Others came and went, but Hawke never fully retreated. When Anders had encounters with other memories, they were like filmy scraps compared to the rogue. Even Hope, though distinguishable, was a mere shadow.

Then came a dark creature from the nothingness, edged in glimmering, lyrium light. It moved like a hunting cat, wary and smooth. It paced around Anders, a scowl on its face, anger rolling off of it.

The room rocked like a ship in a storm and a great wind howled.

"He thinks you are more dangerous than Hawke," Zevran observed quietly. After witnessing Anders' sordid past, even the assassin was subdued and troubled. "He looks afraid."

The dreamer reached out more than once for the shadowy figure, drawing away whenever the sharp face turned towards him.

"I don't want to hurt you," the mage whispered.

"You must," Hawke said, where he lingered a short distance away. "If you will save me."

Anders' face screwed into an expression of agony.

The figment of Fenris padded closer and finally took Anders' shoulder. "You are mine," the spectre said hungrily.

"Yours," Anders murmured.

"For now," Hawke commented.

"This is twisted," Feynriel whispered. "Even for me, this is twisted."

"Quiet," Fenris snapped. "Unless you have something useful to say!" It hurt to watch this, as badly as the experience itself. _I loved you_, he wanted to howl. _You fool! You ruined us both in your blindness and arrogance! Why?!_ _Why did you do this? Why didn't you trust me?_

"Fine. You must stop the cycle here. I think it's almost done." The somniari waved his crystal staff. Following the gesture, the transient world fluttered like a curtain in a breeze, showing the hungry eyes of the figures that had already marched through Anders' dream.

"They're coming back," Fenris realized in horror. He couldn't stand the thought of watching this play out again. The guilt, the remorse, the helpless fury against a cruel world... it was all too much.

"Then do something," Feynriel said sharply.

Fenris stared at Anders helplessly. The blond mage was caught in the grasp of the Tevinter's dream image, his expression at once blissful and afraid. Fenris didn't know what to do and the thought of approaching that grotesque tableau was so loathsome that it paralyzed him.

Zevran muttered a curse, strode forward and grabbed Anders by the back of the neck. The assassin tore the dreamer away from the figments and shoved him toward the real Fenris.

"What?" the mage uttered, stumbling and looking up through a fringe of dishevelled hair.

Dream-Fenris lunged, snarling. Zevran met it, his arms open. The figment nearly passed through him, in parts merging with the assassin completely, but there was enough substance to him that he couldn't quite go through.

"Hah!" Zevran laughed, embracing the squirming shadow. "Finn, my friend, you can distract the teachers and I will distract the lovers." Even as he chortled, more of the shades slid toward him.

"Fenris," Anders moaned, turning and trying to return.

The Tevinter pulled him back, maybe too forcefully as his gauntleted fingers dug into bare flesh. "I am here!" he cried. "Anders, look at me!"

The mage blinked at Fenris in disoriented surprise that slowly became recognition. "Fenris?" he said, lifting a hand to the elf's face.

Fenris took that wondering hand in his own. "Yes," he rasped. "I am here." Behind Anders, Zevran's laughter had become a jumble of breathless Antivan curses, a choked moan, and a variety of wet noises that Fenris firmly ignored. Determinedly, he focused on Anders' face and not the wealth of naked, gold-dusted skin. "You must stop," he said, staring into the vague brown eyes.

"Stop?" Anders tried to turn his head to look back, so Fenris moved closer and gently gripped the man's nape, holding him still. "But they want me," the abomination said plaintively. "They need me."

"What do _you_ want?" Fenris asked him, his own gaze flicking over Anders' features. He didn't know what he was looking for; perhaps some encouragement, some assurance that he was doing the right thing. In that working jaw, the mobile mouth, the expressive eyes, Fenris saw something familiar. It was frustration and fear, fear of the consequences of reaching for what he wanted, and the strong belief that, no matter how hard he fought, he was not worthy of it.

"Freedom," Anders uttered.

"Anders," the Hawke figment called over Zevran's head. "I need you. I want you."

"Do not go to him," Fenris insisted. "That is not freedom... If he loves you, he will come to you." He licked his lips, steeled himself and, hard-voiced, he continued, "As I have come for you."

The mage's eyes closed and he fell forward. Before his weight could hit Fenris' chest, though, the dreamer and dream were swept away.

The four walkers hung in a vast, swirling maelstrom, surrounded by a rush of colour, sound and sensation. To Fenris, it was only an echo of the storm bottled in his own body, his own mind. His thoughts were confused and antagonistic.

_Now you know, now you know, now you know_, came a mad babble. _He's so trapped, so blind, so lost. More than you ever were._

_I will free him. Stay strong, be strong. You know what you must do. You must..._

The Tevinter covered his eyes and grimaced. _Quiet!_

"We're deep now!" Feynriel called over the roar. His staff emitted a faint light that seemed to push back the storm. "He's going to be vulnerable. Be careful! Anders may try to fight you if he figures out what you're doing!"

"Can we die here?" Finn asked. The redhead slowly climbed to his feet, somehow finding purchase on nothingness.

"No." Feynriel shook his head. Behind him, his braid floated and writhed like a snake. "You'll return to your own mind. It may affect the stability of the dream, though. And it will hurt."

"So don't die," Finn said and nodded determinedly. His face firmed in concentration, he whirled his staff and busied himself casting buff spells on the group.

Fenris grimaced at the unfamiliar itch on his skin, so different from Anders, but Zevran sighed happily, rolled his shoulders and bounced.

"Thank you, friend Finn," the assassin said. "I can taste Wynne's teaching." He winked.

Finn made a face. "Thank the Maker you're wearing clothes again," he muttered.

"You noticed my nakedness? I thought you had your head down."

"Er."

"Hold on-" Feynriel started, but an immense crack cut him off.

Anders' dream solidified around them, appearing as a vast round chamber. The stone walls, floor and pillars glowed white in the sunlight streaming through tall windows. In the centre was a dais, upon which was set a white throne. In the throne sat Anders, his blond head tilted down toward a vessel on a narrow pedestal, his face stained with coloured light. Around him were the shades of templars.

"The Harrowing," Finn gasped. "He's dreaming about dreaming!"

"What is the Harrowing?" Fenris demanded.

"A test. The mage must go into the Fade and resist temptation. If he succumbs, the templars kill him. It's supposed to, uh, cull out the weak-willed."

Fenris sneered. "It's not a good test." He flashed a glare at Feynriel. "What must we do?"

"Break the cycle," the somniari said. He pointed with his crystal staff. "Perhaps help him to succeed in his test?"

"Join him in the Fade?" Finn asked. He shook his head. "Can't be any crazier than what we've already done." He started toward the dais.

Fenris joined him, unnerved by this magic, but unwilling to let Finn go ahead without him. Zevran and Feynriel followed closely.

When the walkers were only paces away, close enough that Fenris could see the emptiness in Anders' eyes, the templars moved to block their path.

"You are not welcome here!" they boomed with cavernous voices. "Go back!"

"This is a good sign, yes?" Zevran asked and stealthed out of sight.

Fenris readied his axe and strongly hoped so.

A spirit bolt from Feynriel struck one of the templars, making it stagger back. Fenris scythed through two more, finding them as solid as any real foe.

Finn managed to shatter Fenris' preconceptions of his bravery by dashing into the midst of the templars and, with a loud shout and a slam of his twisted staff to the white stone, summoned a green and brown rush of magic. His skin became bark-like, turning away blows from the ghostly blades. As he moved, the swishing of his robes revealed thick, twining roots connecting him to the floor. He shouted again, whirled his staff, and every enemy near him fell victim to a morass of sharp roots and vines cracking out of the stone.

The sight gave Fenris pause before the Tevinter shook his head and closed the distance to Anders. Two templars, outside Finn's field of influence, rose up to block his way. Fenris struck one down with a mighty blow and the other collapsed as Zevran's sword found a chink in its armour.

"How do we go into the Fade?" Fenris called to the mages.

"Look into the lyrium!" Finn shouted back, his voice like an old oak.

"Pull him free," Feynriel argued and turned one ghostly templar into a walking bomb.

_Blighted mages never give a straight answer_. Fenris dropped to his knees next to the abomination. Anders made no indication that he noticed the elf. Fenris searched the man's profile and saw nothing to tell him what to do.

The lyrium was a shallow, glowing pool. When Fenris looked at it, he saw some fleeting, slippery images, but it didn't suck him in as he expected.

Finn made a shocked, pained noise as a blade struck him. Fenris glanced up and saw an army of templars coming out of the light, out of the stone, from the air itself.

The elf shut his eyes, stripped off his gauntlet and thrust his tattooed hand into the liquid lyrium. It burned, not quite with pain, but with an intense stimulation that tore all over his body, following the cursive lyrium beneath his skin. He cried out.

The floor dropped away and the dream walkers landed in four groaning heaps.

"Will I wake up with these bruises?" Zevran muttered. "Not that I mind bruising, but I like a better story to go with them than, 'I fell from a great height. Many times.'"

"How much further?" Finn asked.

Fenris, up on one knee, fists braced on an earthen surface that seemed to sparkle faintly, said, "I think we found him."

The walls and domed ceiling were panelled in mirrors of all sizes and varieties, framed by strange, shifting carvings and vines. When Fenris looked up and looked around, hundreds of green-eyed shadows stared back at him. They were twisted, though, deformed.

"I don't like this," Finn said quietly. "I don't see anyone else but me in those mirrors." He turned and yelped at the mirror behind them.

Fenris followed the mage's gaze and frowned in disquiet. The mirror was large enough to reveal a complete reflection. As Finn had said, they could see only themselves, and the version of Fenris that looked out was thin, effeminate and smiling. It lifted a hand and beckoned to Fenris.

"Oh, I do not know, friend Finn." Zevran swayed and winked at whatever he saw. "Mine is not so bad. Such a handsome fellow."

"Ugh."

Fenris forcibly pulled himself away and sought out their target. It was difficult to focus with the constant squirming of the dome around them, but he eventually found it. Anders.

The mage lay on a stone bier. Like so many altars that they had found in dungeons and ancient temples, it was stained with old blood. Anders, pale and shrunken, was like a sacrifice upon it, eyes staring blindly upward. His body looked strange, though from this distance Fenris could not tell why.

Between the dreamwalkers and dreamer, though, stood a tall, brightly glowing figure, heavily armoured in plate and horned helm, a great sword jutting above his shoulder.

"Justice," Fenris growled, taking Bloom in hand.

"BEGONE, TRAITOR," the spirit replied hollowly, helmet swivelling to regard the Tevinter. "ANDERS RESTS."

"_Rests_?" Fenris repeated, hissing the word. "He is dying!"

"ALL MORTALS EVENTUALLY PERISH."

"He's taking all of Thedas with him! Don't you see what you've done?!"

"I SEE IT ALL." Justice moved his gauntlet and the mirrors brightened and wavered, revealing images, memories of Hawke. This Hawke smiled, loved, embraced, and united a people fraught with war. He joined hands with mages. He spoke to Anders and Justice of peace and equality.

"He is lying to you!" Fenris snarled. "You and Anders both! Anders only lets you see this... this mockery! And you have bound him here!"

Fenris couldn't see the spirit's face, if it had one, but the elf had the impression of narrowing eyes. Justice made a sound like a huff and a bit of red vapour escaped from his helm. He glowed brighter.

"WILLFUL, DARING TRAITOR," the spirit said. Slowly, he drew the massive blade from his back. "LIAR, COWARD AND FOOL. I WILL NOT ALLOW YOUR INJUSTICE TO CONTINUE."

Teeth bared, Fenris took absurd pleasure in finally being able to tell the spirit, "Come at me, you pustule sucking degenerate."

Justice charged and Fenris met him, the ghostly blade screaming against Bloom's heavy iron shaft. Fenris' arms strained against this immense strength and he was forced to retreat.

Justice laughed. "MORAL DEPRAVITY MAKES YOU WEAK."

"You can't fight a spirit with brute force," Feynriel called.

Fenris activated his lyrium and ghosted, pulling himself more fully into the Fade. Everything seemed to become more solid, including the glowing spirit. The elf grinned. "Watch me."

Once on even footing, they were an equal match. They circled each other and clashed, again and again, with blows that nearly shattered the Veil around them. Neither faltered. Justice was powered by his ideals and the Fade itself. Fenris was fuelled by deep anger and the knowledge that Justice could be accused of perpetrating Anders' crimes.

"Do something!" he heard, somewhere behind him. "Dream stalker!" It was Zevran, but Fenris wasn't able to look away from Justice to see why the assassin was yelling.

"I am," was Feynriel's cool reply.

Something about the mage's tone made Fenris feel an urgent need to see what Feynriel was doing. _You cannot trust mages_, he reminded himself urgently. He disengaged from Justice when the spirit was mid-swing, giving himself some breathing room, and skittered away. When he lifted his head, he experienced a rough moment of vertigo from the thousands of Fenris' glaring down at him, but forced it away and found Feynriel.

The somniari stood over Anders, holding some arcane device over the dreamer's blank and wasted face. Light moved from Feynriel's hand and shimmered over Anders' eyes.

"What are you doing?" Fenris roared. It was magic, obviously, and Fenris strongly doubted that whatever Feynriel was casting would do away with the dreamer.

_And he is mine. The abomination is my responsibility!_

"It's some kind of enchantment," Finn called.

"That's enough," the somniari said, without looking away from Anders. "You can go now."

Finn vanished.

"You as well, assassin." Feynriel lifted his free hand.

Zevran unstealthed directly behind the somniari, a dagger raised for a back attack. "Brask-" he started. Then he, too, vanished.

"Liar!" Fenris spat. "Traitor!" He tried to leap closer, but Justice charged from the side and forced the Tevinter to retreat.

"Quite the contrary." The glow increased. Fenris was close enough to see a reflective surface in the somniari's hand; a mirror. "I am very loyal. To my teachers and masters, anyway." He chuckled lightly. "And won't they be pleased when Anders turns against the terrible Viscount? The Magisters will step in and bring order to the ruined provinces of the Imperium."

One of Justice's blows got through and tore the flesh of Fenris' thigh. The elf swallowed a cry and stumbled back out of range.

"Don't you see what he's doing?!" he snarled at the spirit. "Anders will be enthralled to the magisters and they have no room for justice!"

"But mages will be revered in the new Imperium," Feynriel crooned. "As they should be."

"And everyone else will be little more than slaves!"

"You'll be back where you belong, elf," Feynriel laughed.

"Never," Fenris coughed raggedly. "Flames take you. Never again!" He glared at Justice as the spirit clanked closer. "What essence of justice would allow such a thing?"

Remarkably, Justice slowed. He released another breath of red vapour. His helmet swivelled to regard the somniari.

"Don't listen to him," Feynriel called softly. "He's lying." The light had increased, as though the small mirror was reflecting sunlight on the sleeping mage's face.

"They will use Anders," Fenris insisted cautiously. "Like Haw—," he cut himself off, recalling Justice's violent defence of the Viscount. "Like the Circle," he chose instead. "Like Anders was used in the past."

"THAT WILL NOT BE ALLOWED." Justice turned and surged toward his prone host and the half-breed.

"Ah, flames!" Feynriel lifted his staff and thrust it out, over Anders, pointing toward Justice.

The dream warped, inciting a hiss of discontent from the mirrors. The sparkling ground rolled and heaved. In the space before Justice's heavy footsteps, silver bars erupted and stabbed upward. The spirit roared hollowly and tried to go around, only to be deflected by more bars. He swung and smashed his sword against them, but they were immovable. In mere seconds, he was caught in a cage.

Feynriel groaned and hunched over the bier, his face twisted with fatigue. The object in his hand trembled.

Fenris, having sprinted forward the moment Justice started to move, took his chance. He sent Bloom screaming through the air at the halfbreed's spine.

The axe passed through the somniari with no resistance. Feynriel blinked cool brown eyes and looked over. He was pale and sweating, but smiling his triumph.

"This is my world, fool," he gloated. "You can't hurt me here."

Fenris' lip lifted. "Perhaps not," he rumbled. "But I can get rid of you."

Fenris lunged forward. Feynriel, still smiling, merely tilted his staff to banish the Tevinter. Fenris did not attack, though. Before Feynriel could react, Fenris reached for the strong source of magic resting so elegantly on the somniari's brow. His fingers passed through the mage's head without resistance until he ghosted his arm.

Feynriel's eyes widened. His lips moved.

Fenris' ghostly arm tore the pretty net of golden wires and gems off of the mage's head. As the bits of jewelry chimed to the ground, Feynriel vanished.

Immediately, the Fade's illusory ground trembled beneath Fenris' feet.

_The dream is ending._ Without Feynriel, there was nothing to keep Fenris here.

The elf fell against the bier at the first ripple. He looked down on Anders, fully, for the first time, and wanted to cry out at what he saw. The bloodstained stone of the bier was not stone at all, but something fleshy and hungry. Thick, vine-like appendages wrapped around the abomination's body, covering all but his pinched face. At his neck, where they touched the mage's skin, the flesh was blue-veined.

_Maker_. _Anders. What have you done to yourself?_ He had expected hatred, anger, perhaps satisfaction. Instead, Fenris felt only pity. The mage was already dying, killing himself, feeding on himself.

_End it for him_, he urged himself. _Now._

The dream continued to grumble and warp around him. The mirrors, full of those green-eyed mockeries, chittered and shrieked. Something shattered.

He nearly reached out to touch the mage. There had been love, desire, the growth of... something. Trust. _I was the blind one_, the elf thought sadly. _I should have seen it. And here we are._

The air over the mage was warm, the vines pulsed and shifted together, whispering as they tightened.

"I am sorry," Fenris whispered. He lifted his axe in weary arms, held it high over his shoulder. After all he had seen, he could no longer blame the mage for more than arrogance, stupidity, faulty thoughts. Of all the mages Fenris knew, it was only Anders who did not seek power for power's sake; who had, in fact, given himself over completely to his own unthinking love for Hawke. "We could have done it together," the elf continued, his soft voice catching. "Fool."

Intense pain was his only answer. A glowing blade erupted from his stomach, just under his breastplate. He cried out, more of a gasp as all the air left his body. There was a taste of metal in his throat and a cold burn everywhere. His arms lost their strength and Bloom fell to the ground behind him.

Glass exploded from the twisting mirrors and rained down around him, each fragment bearing its own scowling Fenris.

Wonderingly, he tried to touch the foot of ghostly steel protruding from his belly.

With a hiss, it wrenched out. Fenris fell forward, palms pressed to the warm, squirming vines covering the bier. He drooled a mouthful of hot blood.

"TRAITOR," Justice intoned behind him. "A PITY THIS IS ONLY A TEMPORARY DEATH. YOU DESERVE SO MUCH GREATER."

"No," Fenris breathed. The dome expanded upward and the floor drooped, descending, like a bubble about to pop.

_I failed. I failed._ The thoughts rang through his mind. He closed his eyes against wet heat, mingling pain and despair. After all they had done, nothing would change. Hawke still had Anders, Feynriel could not be trusted, and there was nothing he could do.

He coughed and cried out from the agony of his wound. He was cold, becoming numb in the limbs. He wondered if he would die before the dream ended, wondered how long he could hold on.

He crumpled, his upper body resting on the vines and the figure beneath them, his blood running in rivulets to stain the stone again.

The dream heaved. Fenris' eyes grew heavy, impossible to keep open.

A force against his shoulder rolled him over, onto his back. Then there was magic, a wash of magic he thought he would never crave, but it was like water, like light, like life, shivering across his skin and sinking in, weaving his sundered flesh back together. He blinked his eyes open and looked at the hand pressed to his belly, followed the bare arm to the emaciated figure of the mage.

"Fenris," Anders said, golden brows pulling together. He was sitting, now naked as the vines continued wisping out of existence. He held Fenris closer and looked down in concern. "I was dreaming..."

Fenris tried to laugh, but when the air around him shivered at the noise, he cut it short. "You still are," he rasped hurriedly. He struggled upright, no longer pained, but weak, shaky. He reached for something, a weapon, anything, but there was nothing solid, they were falling, falling together into darkness. Desperately, he called, "You must wake up!"

"I don't know what you mean." The mage was touching him with agonizing familiarity, as though he had no recollection of anything. His lips were soft on Fenris' cheek, his fingers urged more closeness between them.

Fenris could have sobbed. "I was going to kill you! But now... Anders, you have to wake up! Wake up and see what you have done!"

Everything was melting, even Anders' face was sliding away.

"Will you be there?" the mage asked.

Fenris nearly choked. "No," he spoke with difficulty. At the expression of sorrow on the other man's face, the elf remembered what he had seen in Anders' dreams, what he knew now. "Come and find me. Maker help me, Anders, you are _not alone_. But you must _wake up_!"

He didn't have a chance to say more before everything slipped away.

/.\./.\

"Wake up! Fenris!"

Hands shook him. Unfamiliar mage taste. Fenris lashed out with a fist and barely stopped himself before breaking Finn's nose.

The mage fell backward and scuttled back on his hands until his red head hit the wall.

"What?" Fenris rasped, rolling into a crouch. Without intending to, his body continued rolling until he was hunched on hands and knees. The mattress under his palms seemed to be moving, swaying.

"Zevran is gone," the mage blurted hurriedly, one hand at his head, the other lifted to hold Fenris at bay. "I told him to wait for you to wake, but he didn't want to lose the night, he said." Finn was pale, his skin shiny with sweat although the air was cool. "He woke first, I think. Gave him a chance to talk himself into it."

"Into what?" Fenris squeezed his eyes shut and cursed the assassin and his sleeping poisons. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"And I don't want to be ungracious, but I think he was drinking—"

"Of course he was drinking!" Fenris roared at the floor. "My mouth tastes like something died in it!" He dragged his head up and glared at Finn's slightly wobbly image. "I would drink a bottle, too. Where did he go?!"

"To the palace," Finn blurted frantically. "He's gone to slay Hawke before the Viscount wakes."


	29. Chapter 29

**Warnings:** Angst, gore, angst, divine intervention, angst, flashbacks, angst, the author trying her hand at soul-crushing guilt. And angst. And man-tears.

**Summary:** I'm somewhere where I don't know where I am! Anders awakens and re-equips with the help of... someone.

**Author's Note:** Agh, I'm sorry this took so long. Many, many huge thank yous to PaulaH and dark_tenshi17 for getting me through this and keeping me honest. I really, really hope that this turned out all right. Please feel free to point out any "WTF?" moments.

**Playlist Recommendation:  
**Where is My Mind? - Suckerpunch Soundtrack

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe  
Chapter Twenty-nine**

_'Wake up!'_

The mage gasped, drawing in a long, deep lungful of air. It tasted... putrid. Rotten. It tasted like death.

The cloying scent came from the body lying next to him. It was a thin woman's body. He reached out to her, brushed some damp, tangled hair from her face, and recognized her from a dream.

_Her perfect oval face was close to his, her young body bending over him. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Would you lay with me for a time?"_

Anders flinched away from the dead girl, but the hazy memories didn't stop. He remembered her, her face and voice and her laughing race to an underground dungeon. He remembered amusement and irritation.

Now she was gone.

_What happened? Maker, is this a nightmare? Is this real?_

His vision went blurry, smearing the light that streamed in from under the door. When he touched his eyes, he felt wetness. He rubbed it between his fingertips.

This was all wrong. He shouldn't be awake like this. Aware like this. It was all wrong.

He looked down at Hawke; the rogue rested safe and easy on Anders' legs. He gently carded his fingers through Hawke's black hair and wanted to feel comfort and love, but there was nothing. He felt nothing but relief that Hawke did not stir. The man was deeply asleep.

_'Come and find me.' _Not Hawke's voice. Someone else. Something familiar, but lost to him.

_Who's out there? Who's waiting for me?_

A sense of urgency grew in his belly. He did not know where to go, only that he must.

The mage slid out from under Hawke's solid, muscular warmth. He squirmed away and let his feet descend to the frigid marble floor. His toes brushed skin as cold and hard as stone. Another body, a blond male, unnaturally contorted by ropes and magic. Anders looked away from it. He stood and drifted from the canopied bed.

They were in the King's chambers, in the palace in the centre of Nevarra City; he remembered that much, even if he couldn't remember why or how. Shivering from the chill, Anders found clothing; something the former royal occupants had abandoned in one of the heavy wardrobes. His own robes, stiff with silver embroidery and enchantments, waited on a stand by Hawke's armour, but he couldn't bear the thought of wearing them. Even in the darkness, they looked stained.

_I'm dreaming. I must be. Hawke..._ He glanced back, toward the rogue lying among the dead. _You aren't this man._

_I have to go._

Anders moved through the night, a pale wisp in the old King's soft white trousers and loose white shirt. He left everything behind.

Two of Hawke's undead Tevinter Revenants waited in the King's antechamber, standing on either side of the door. Though they did not move, Anders felt their intelligent attention on him. The sensation made him shudder. He crept past, his slippers nearly silent.

He felt very weak as he traversed the many passageways in the Pentaghast palace. Often, he put a shaking hand to the wall and rested, his head low, his breath strained. Something had happened to him. Something terrible.

_No, it was me. I did this. And I'm not the only one to suffer._

He heard his own hollow voice. _'It is done. Maker, help me, it is done. It cannot be undone.' _He met wide, green eyes, hard with pain and anger. In that nightmare, he tore himself away from that man and turned to the other. Hawke. He had saved Hawke.

_And at what price? What did I do?_

The answers slid away from him. He pushed off of the wall and followed them.

He reached a set of stairs leading down to the ground floor and paused. _They're down there. _Memories flashed behind his eyes. He strode behind Hawke's shoulder, impassively observing the ranks of elite warriors allowed to sleep in the palace's first level. There were hundreds, fighting each other for the bits of gold and silver in the palace great rooms and kitchens. Even at night, standing at the top of the stairs and listening, he could hear their revelry and violence.

_Did that happen? Is this... the Circle? Kirkwall? Nevarra. I don't know where I am. _He lost what little strength remained in his legs and slid down the wall. He blinked at the stone hall and the stairs, listened to the rabble below him. Fear suffocated him, crushing his throat in a steely fist. Nothing was familiar. Nothing was safe.

_I can't get through here_, he thought, his eyes burning. _Not without them seeing me. Not without..._ The options were terrible: alarm, confrontation, death. The worst was the idea of Hawke _(no, that's not him!) _striding down the halls after him and taking Anders back to his chambers. _Why does that possibility... terrify me? Do I not love him? Would he hurt me?_

He looked down. In the faint, smoky yellow light from the casements, he thought he saw blood on his fingers and palms.

_He would make me hurt everyone. Everything._

Fear urged Anders to continue, echoes of that unfamiliar voice pulled him, but there was nowhere to go.

_I can't get through_, wailed a voice in his mind. _Maker, help me._

He wrapped his arms around his knees and shut his eyes, shaking from cold and proximity to danger. This was just a dream. A nightmare. If only he could wake up and be with-

In his mind's eye, Hawke's powerful bulk was replaced by litheness, darkness, glimmering lyrium tattoos and an uncompromising green stare.

_I was wrong!_ he wailed internally, stifling a sob. _I was so wrong. I failed you, I failed everyone. Hawke is gone. You're gone. _

'_Come to me,'_ the voice insisted.

_I want to. Maker, I want to, but I'm so scared..._

He sat like that for some time, trembling and hating himself for his fear and weakness. His awareness narrowed to the pressure of his knees against his brow, the hardness of stone against his spine, the sound of Hawke's army, the scents of must and smoke. Around him, shadows flocked. There was a pressure of memory, of thought, that he could not comprehend.

Then there was a small rattling noise, somewhere near his hip, and something tugged at his shirt.

Surprised, Anders lifted his head and looked down. Bright green eyes met his gaze. The small cat purred more loudly and increased the speed and intensity of her kneading on the edge of his shirt. It was a little female, her fur mottled red, orange and black. Her purr was out of proportion to her size; it should have belonged to a lion.

"Hello," Anders whispered. He held his fingers out to her and she immediately rubbed her face and body against them, regardless of how stained they might be. Despite his fear, Anders smiled slightly and the hard grip of fear loosened. "What are you doing here? Are there mice about?"

She blinked up at him.

He moved to stroke her more boldly. She tolerated it for a moment before standing and tip-toeing away, back down the hall from whence he'd come. A white spot waggled back and forth like a little flame on the tip of her erect tail, teasing him.

Crushing sadness and despair returned with her departure.

She chirped at him. The vocalization could hardly be called a meow. It sounded... half-scolding and half-inviting. Her green eyes reflected back at him from the darkness.

For lack of anything better to do, he pushed himself to his feet and followed her.

He worried that she would take him back to the king's chambers, but instead she led him past them, up another set of stairs, down a convoluted series of identical hallways, and finally stopped in front of a narrow wooden door. Here, she sat and licked her paw. Waiting.

The door hadn't been opened for a long time. Little wonder. Behind it was a cupboard full of rotting shelves and moth-eaten scarves.

"Urgh," he grunted at the smell. He glared down at the cat. "Is this where the mice are? Is that why you brought me here?"

She stared up at him.

"Well," he sighed after a moment. "I've done stranger things." The weary mage reached in and pulled everything out of the cupboard.

The cat immediately leapt up the empty shelves, stretched up and scratched at the wooden ceiling. Anders shrugged and followed her, forcing his tired limbs to climb. At the top, he pushed his shoulders against the ceiling and prayed that the shelves wouldn't collapse beneath him.

Finally, someone listened to his prayers. The ceiling lifted and allowed him entry into a small, dust-clogged room.

"Someone should write a dissertation," he muttered. His voice was swallowed by the mouldy furnishings and tapestries, by the nests of small animals built in the corners. "On the occurrence of mages in royal families and how often they're hidden from the world."

Many, many years ago, someone had lived here. In the light from the grimy windows, Anders looked around himself. A low bed waited in one corner of the room, still made up with blankets embroidered with the Nevarran royal crest. Chests, book shelves, wardrobes, and a heavy worktable lay scattered among the debris of magical science. Anders trailed his gaze over the dusty curios.

It reminded him, briefly, of the workshop below the Nevarran Necropolis—_wicked glass burning eyes infernal machinery souls bringing to life that which was long dead screamingscreamingscreaming_—

"Ow!" Anders winced and held his stinging wrist against his mouth. He glared at his feline companion. "What was that for?"

The little cat hissed up at him, her tail lashing against the bits of decrepit papers and empty vials that covered the table.

The memory faded, submerged under the confused haze he had woken in.

He continued searching and found, folded away in a chest reeking of cedar, a set of robes laced with enhancements. Much to his surprise, they fit. Not only that, but the militaristic Nevarrans designed a short style for their mage robes, more like the coat he was used to, dark with golden toggles, belted over trousers and a tunic. In one of the wardrobes, he found boots that mostly fit, if a bit too tight. The mage grunted with the effort of getting them on. In another chest, amongst an assortment of baubles and oddments, he discovered a modest collection of potions, all of them glittering with their latent power.

Anders held up a blue lyrium potion. For lack of proper food, it would have to do. "Cheers to you, my ancient friend," he said to the room. "Wherever you are, may there be plenty to drink and many friendly women-"

_-sobbing she was sobbing she was afraid but she kept kissing him her lips salty with tears but sweet so sweet and death was already there-_

The potion fell and spilled into the carpet as Anders gripped his skull, trying to force away the searing images and sensations. He staggered and fell against the low bed, but that only made it worse, made his body remember the warm nights, the bedchambers, the sheets soaked in sweat and ichor. Desperately, he stumbled in the other direction and curled up on the naked stone floor.

_That didn't happen. It didn't! It's a dream! This is-_

The little cat rubbed the length of her body against his hands. He flinched from the touch. She persisted, though, until the rattle of her purr sank into his mind and he was able to relax.

He breathed for a while, perfectly blank. When the cat chirped at him, he sat up. He reached into the chest and retrieved another lyrium potion. This time, he drank without toasting his absent host.

Finally, Anders found the old mage's staff and received another pleasant surprise. It leaned, innocuously enough, in the corner between the bookshelf and a window, keeping company with an old straw broom and a mop. It looked rather like an embarrassed thoroughbred in a flock of sheep. When Anders approached it, he could almost hear it calling, a small plea to leave the dust and gloom of the Nevarran attic.

At first, the mage felt leery. The thought of holding a staff bothered him, though the reason why was painful enough that he didn't look at it directly. The shape of it, though, the gentle twists and the flow of the wood grain, the cool, clear gem at the tip, they spoke of comfort and healing. When he touched it, when his own energy trickled into it, he felt restored.

"My host was a healer, too," he wondered, amazed. This staff, this ancient conduit, would increase his abilities many times over.

More than that, with the smooth grain under his fingers, his mind settled. The film across his vision lifted. _This is real_, he thought with some assurance, blinking at the small apartment. _This, here, is not a dream._

_Then that means-_ He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. _If this is real, then those memories- _His gorge rose, bile and lyrium burning the back of his throat. _The man in the bed, the not-Hawke, the voice- it's him, but it can't be because he's gone! He's gone because of me!_

The cat meowed.

Under his hand, the staff became a warm and living thing, radiating comfort up his arm to settle into his heart and mind. It bolstered him. Anders drew on its power and shoved the thoughts and memories away. _I can't fall here. I have to go._

The mage shook his head, blinking away the moisture of more tears. "Yes," he replied hoarsely to the little cat. He bowed to her. "Thank you, dear lady. I'm now fully equipped. But... where do I go from here?"

She wound around his new boots, then trotted to one of the windows and stood high enough to set her paws on the sill.

"Out," the mage chuckled. "How very direct."

He didn't want to have to break the glass, not when the room was full of items that needed protection from the elements, but he had little choice. There were neither latches nor hinges. Using the butt of his staff, Anders smashed out an entire pane and cleared the edges. Then, with utmost care, he wiggled out onto the palace roof.

Immediately, Anders slid down the bumpy terracotta shingles toward the edge. He had a moment to panic and try to twist and grab onto something, and then his knee and hip slammed into a low stone balustrade. He clamped onto and caught his staff an instant before it tumbled away.

The little cat hopped up next to him and rubbed her chin on his heaving shoulder.

"You could have warned me," he growled.

She paced away, following the edge of the roof. While he took a moment to calm his heart before following, he looked out over the city.

His first impression was of the haze. The sun was rising, or about to rise, but instead of pale pastels to mark its coming, the sky wore a cloak of dreary grey. In parts, the city glowed orange from far off fires. The buildings, even at this distance, were ragged with devastation, like a mouthful of broken teeth. Anders flinched at the sight.

_I did this,_ he thought. _This was my fault._ It was like holding a ball of lead in his belly. Guilt poisoned him, made him weak and heavy. _All of it is my fault._

He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could still see it. He saw the city walls, scorched and demolished, Hawke's army pouring through. His own figure paced by the conquering Viscount and burned that which Hawke wanted burned.

_This isn't the worst. This isn't the worst of what I've done. _From the moment he turned his back on _him_, Anders had walked through a nightmare. _I was blind. So wrong. I destroyed so much. _

_I destroyed you. _

Memories again, seeping past the dam Anders tried so hard to hold up. He stood in the Viscount's throne room, surrounded by fear and awe, and watched the figure at the end of the line push back his hood. He saw pointed ears, soft white hair and a strong, dark face, lip lifted in a cold sneer. Around the elf's neck wound a silver filigree collar. In memory, Anders felt nothing.

In the present, Anders bowed over the balustrade, bowing over the agony of guilt and shame in his gut. He cried out softly, the sound wrenched out of his chest.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I turned from you and now you're gone!_

The cat chirped impatiently. She had returned to him.

"No," he choked. "Go. Don't help me anymore." He leaned forward and looked down, over the edge, at the hard cobbles several floors below him. He could end it. End everything. No more than what he deserved.

She clawed him again. He jolted and nearly sent himself over.

"Ow," he muttered again. He sucked on the considerable wound.

She growled and he could see, in her clear green eyes, accusations. Anger. Challenge.

_Are you going to give up?_ It was hard to tell if the thought was his own, the influence of Justice, or someone else. _Are you a coward?_

Memories again, from long ago. Different, darker green eyes. A rough voice. Pale lips. A sneer, a scowl, a smirk, a rare smile. _Coward! Isn't it obvious?_

_No._ He breathed, pulled away from the edge. _No. I can't give up. There is too much to atone for. _So many had suffered from his blindness and ignorance. From his treachery.

He inhaled deeply and gripped the staff tighter. Under his palm, it hummed with health and energy. _I have to make this right._ "All right," he said to the cat. He hoped his voice sounded less shaky to her than it did to him. "I... I'm sorry. Let's go."

She turned and led him away.

They worked their way around the entire expansive roof. Anders watched for Hawke's guards, lying flat whenever he spotted one on the ground below. As much as he could, the mage avoided looking at the city itself as she revealed more and more of her desecration in the morning light. He felt relief when they reached the back of the palace and his eyes could rest on the gardens and the vast, glimmering breadth of the Minanter River beyond the garden wall.

There, in a back corner, Anders found his way to the ground via the simple method of falling. He had meant to climb onto the stables, then down through the support beams and to the ground, but he slipped off of his initial handhold on the balustrade and plummeted down through the hay loft and onto a stack of straw.

He lay there for a time, trying to hold his breath and listen around the wild thudding of his heart. All was quiet, but for the slightest crackles under him and the distant grumbles of the occupied city. At least there were no horses to spook with his sudden landing.

When he felt calm, Anders clambered out, brushed himself off, and crept to the stable doors where the little cat already waited in a beam of clear grey light. She opened her mouth as if to meow, but no sound emerged.

Anders nodded and lay a finger to his lips. He must be silent.

He followed her out into the garden. He felt exposed and vulnerable, keeping close to the uncertain cover of the broken statuary and withered trees, but the little cat continued on, unconcerned. She took him to the back wall and then along it to the corner, where the stonework had degraded under vine and weather and he could climb it. The other side fell away in a steep drop off to the dark river, dozens of yards below. After a moment of looking, though, he saw a path. He followed it with his eyes until it disappeared below the edge of the river bank. Knowing his luck, the brackish water and thick foliage hid a dungeon of sorts, most likely full of spiders.

_Ugh._

The cat meowed at him urgently.

"Right," he sighed, swinging his leg over. "I'm coming."

He took a last, lingering look at the palace, his mind gently probing the great wall of pain and fear that made up his memories of the place. Memories he could not address, not now. As he gazed up at it, the sun finally dragged itself up over the horizon and struck a violet bloom in the haze above the palace and the dark variegation of Nevarra City.

A terrible sound followed the sun's light, half scream and half battle roar, rough and torn, violent and angry. Familiar.

_Fenris!_

The name hit him like a blow, smashing through Anders' desperate mental walls. Guilt, shame and fear paralysed him. He hung suspended between past and present, nightmares and reality. His eyes strained blindly toward the palace and the rising sun, but he saw none of it. He saw Fenris—fighting, drinking, reading, riding, loving, betrayed, enslaved. And then... gone.

_He's alive! _Anders burst into forward motion. _This is real. This has to be real! _He scrambled forward on hands and knees, and savoured the sting of the rough stones. He somehow made it onto his feet, nearly slipping off as the unfamiliar boots slid on the dew-soaked stones.

_He's so close! Fenris!_

The cat squalled angrily.

He looked back at her, wide-eyed at the sound. Her fur was up and her mouth open in a dangerous growl.

"I can't," he gasped. "I can't go, not when he's here. Not again. I won't leave him again! I'm sorry." He barely knew what he was apologizing for. Maybe that the little creature had done so much for him and he could not obey her.

He didn't wait for her to respond before he took off running along the top of the wall. From this vantage, he could see the palace. He saw armed and armoured men fighting each other to get out of the building through doors and broken windows. He saw why when a glowing, white-haired figure exploded out of a fourth floor window, followed by Hawke's laughing figure and seven soul-black Revenants.

_No_, Anders thought frantically. _Not again. Not again. Not again._ He pushed himself harder, lifted his new, thrumming staff, and prepared to fight.


	30. Chapter 30

**Warnings:** Death, gore, and the author frolicking with the rules of magic.

**Summary:** Run, Fenris, run! Don't be late for your reunion!

**Author's Note:** *grovels before PaulaH for her amazing beta-ing*

As always, please point out any moments of WTFery.

**Playlist Recommendation:  
**Carmina Burana – Trans Siberian Orchestra  
Burn my Shadow - UNKLE

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty**

Fenris hurtled unsteadily down the streets of Nevarra City. Finn had cast some kind of cure spell, but it barely took the edge off the poison. The ground seemed to heave under the elf's bare feet and piles of rubbish, statuary, fountains and drunk soldiers leapt into his path.

"Oi!" shouted a dwarven warrior when Fenris careened off him. "T'ain't dawn yet! Shift change ain't 'til full light!"

Some few-with explosive curses-recognized their former General. Of those, about half fell grovelling to the ground or saluted. Some, though, tried to attack or follow.

Fenris didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Zevran didn't know that they had failed. The assassin had nearly an hour's head start. He could be obliterated at any moment by Hawke's guardian.

_Unless Anders woke. Unless somehow he got himself out. But I can't take that chance._

The elf cracked his shin on a fountain and swore under his breath. He pounded on, pushing himself, stretching himself, ignoring the cries of the confused and angry soldiers he encountered.

He broke into Penderghast Square, panting heavily, dizzy and furious. He was able to take a quick look around—_no Zevran_—before something skeletal attacked from the side.

It shattered into dust from one giant sweep of Bloom. Fenris pelted onward.

The palace gates hulked on one side of the square, shut and guarded. Fenris passed them and sprinted around to the side. He eyed the walls as he passed, looking for any indication that Zevran may have found a way in.

_What do I do?_ Fenris thought desperately. _Break in? Call out and tell him not to try it? But no, that would just reveal his presence. That would wake the palace! Create a distraction, then? Give him a better chance?_ He ground his teeth in frustration. _Maker take you, assassin! I thought you less a fool!_

The cold thought occurred to him, _Revenge makes fools of us all._

Indecision robbed him of the strength rage had loaned. He came to a halt on the east side of the building, in the deep recess of a doorway, and gazed up at the solid, featureless walls hulking in the predawn. There was nothing. No assassin, no rope, no breaks in the stones. Just the fading darkness and a growing crowd of soldiers looking for him in the streets and alleys around the palace.

Any moment, he would hear of Zevran's death.

_Or will I? He may already be gone, burnt away or all of his bits torn out through his eyes._ Fenris shuddered at the thought. _No. Not Zevran. I will not let that happen._

He glared at the wall. It looked so plain, so ignoble, to form such an impenetrable barrier.

The elf nearly slapped his own forehead as it suddenly occurred to him that nothing was impenetrable to a lyrium warrior.

_Dangerous,_ he admitted to himself. _Very dangerous. It killed your predecessor. They chipped the lyrium out of a boulder and left the bones behind._

_But I am stronger now. I have the will. How much different is it from phasing to avoid Bon's sword, from walking in the Fade? You just need to focus. _

He bared his teeth in a silent snarl at the sweep of implacable stone.

_You must do this._

He activated his lyrium, startling a nearby elf poking in the shadows, and dashed straight for the wall. It loomed up before him, huge and very solid. In the last few steps, he concentrated on every body part, every piece of armour, on Bloom, on his hair, on the breath in his lungs and the blood in his veins.

He refused to flinch, refused to close his eyes. The wall glowed a soft grey, filling his vision, and then there was nothing.

The stone offered no resistance. He passed into it like it wasn't there at all.

For a breathless moment, all was darkness. He glanced down and startled at the sight of his own body. All he saw of it was the tracing of lyrium, as though naked. As though his skin didn't exist at all. In this silent void, he existed as nothing but the tattoos, nothing but magic. His legs churned against the nothingness and the lyrium bent and twisted and propelled him forward.

As suddenly as he had entered it, Fenris erupted from the other side, back into the light and air. He landed directly in front of a shocked human and caved in the man's chest before he had a chance to raise the alarm.

Fenris paused to take stock of himself. He patted every limb, every piece of gear on his body, and found them all in place. _You owe yourself a drink_, he thought, smirking slightly. Around him, the palace grounds were all scarred, trampled grass and rubbish. Fenris concentrated, heard the approach of another guard from somewhere to the south, and took off running away from the noise.

He didn't need to do much scouting to know where Hawke lurked. After sharing the man's will, Fenris knew. He felt it, as though he had decided himself where the Viscount would lay his head. Hawke would be at the top, in the king's chambers.

_This is it._ Fenris clenched his fists around Bloom. The moment he had been building toward. Destroying the monster Hawke had become. Or dying in the attempt. Recapture was not an option.

The palace's ground level teemed with soldiers; Fenris heard the rumble of their voices. As much as he would enjoy slaughtering the lot of them, that wouldn't be especially stealthy. Instead, the elf trotted around the building until he found a ladder. Then, ensuring that remained out of sight, he quickly ascended to a second floor window and slid inside.

Dark, deserted halls greeted him. Fenris came upon only two unwary guards and quietly sent them along to their Maker via sudden heart attack. He passed room after empty room, all of them looted and ravaged, some still containing the grisly remains of their former occupants. At the first stairwell he found, he surged up the steps three at a time to the fourth floor. The closer he got to his goal, the greater his sense of urgency, and he had to stop himself from rushing on. To use extreme caution on the new level.

His nerves screamed at him as he drew nearer to Hawke's chambers. He could feel it, the darkness and power, the terrible regret. Finally, the Tevinter pushed open an unlatched door and immediately flinched back.

Two ancient, crowned and robed Revenants loomed at the sides of an opulent antechamber, their skeletal hands outstretched toward their captive. In the centre of the room stood Zevran, encapsulated in bright, indigo magic.

Fenris stared through the slender opening, ready for the Revenants to attack. They didn't move. Neither did Zevran.

_Magical prison_, Fenris thought, flush with relief. _He's not dead. Just uncomfortable._ The magic held the assassin's posture in an unnatural position, his arms thrust back behind him, his legs fully extended. His entire body was like a taut bow, his head tilted back and his mouth open as he glared at the ceiling. _They're holding him until their master wakes_.

The thought filled Fenris with nauseating revulsion and a confusion of guilt and sorrow. Flashes of Hawke and Danarius tore through him, reminding him of his own culpability. Hawke had become this thing because of Fenris, because he ran from Danarius, because he allowed Danarius, and then Anders, to fool him. _Stop this_, he snarled internally. _Not now._

The elf surveyed the room. Early morning light crept in past a curtained window, allowing Fenris to pick out the details of Hawke's purloined treasures; heaps of gold and fine fabrics, jewellery and clothing of every variety, all of it piled haphazardly on the floors and furniture. This was for the army, Fenris recalled. This new Hawke wouldn't waste his time with useless trinkets. He only collected them to maintain his power over the rabble.

Two other doors led away, but neither were edged in Anders' distinctive glow. _The wrong place?_ Fenris wondered. Surely, Anders could not have escaped.

Hope surged through the elf's gut, an emotion Hawke woke in him once before. The same hope Hawke stripped from Fenris in his bargain with Danarius. Fenris growled softly and shoved it back to the Void where it belonged. Hope never helped him in all his years as a slave and it would do him no favours now.

_Regardless_, Fenris thought grimly, tightening his grip on Bloom. _You know what you must do._

Zevran was resistant enough that one Revenant could not hold him. Once Fenris distracted one of them, through the simple expedient of breaking its desiccated arms, the prison swiftly failed. The assassin dropped into a crouch, muttered a string of Antivan curses, and slid into the shadows.

Against the two powerful elves, the Revenants stood little chance. Fenris suffered some painful burns and the mild debilitation of an entropic cloud, but Zevran's reappearance, his blades tearing through one of the withered bodies, heralded a quick end for their enemies.

The Maker favoured them; the Revenants died quietly, with only a crunch and the whisper of magic released from its vessels. Fenris and Zevran finished the battle with shallow panting and a brief, whispered argument.

"I failed," Fenris hissed at the other elf. "We can't go any further!"

"The mage lives?" Zevran asked, blond brows pulling together. At Fenris' nod, he shook his head. "Then I should be inside-out right now. That is the Viscount's bed chamber. Surely, his cursed guardian would not let me get this far."

Fenris frowned thoughtfully at the door. No blue light. No tingle of magic. Nothing but quiet darkness and the ache of knowing that Hawke lurked so close. "I told him to wake up and run," he said. "I don't... I don't think he could have."

"Do we have another choice?" Zevran tossed his knife, caught it, and smirked at the Tevinter. "I had hoped to slit his throat before you woke. A morning gift for you. I suppose I needed your help, though. Come, we have gone too far to turn back now. Vengeance awaits."

Fenris thought sharply of Anders and Justice, the sting of betrayal overshadowed by that blighted hope. "I hope you are wrong," he responded under his breath.

"I will go by window," the assassin continued merrily. "We will surround him."

_This is it_, Fenris realized, watching Zevran investigate the window. _The end. Can you do it? Can you kill the man you once loved? Both of them?_

The assassin made a pleased noise and popped the window open. He winked at the Tevinter and slid out.

Alone, Fenris stood before Hawke's door. His mind rolled over the many dark memories, and shied away from the good, which cut so painfuly. He breathed deeply and regularly, trying to calm himself. _No turning back._ To the smiling, cocky, powerful and wonderful man in his memory, he said, _Good bye, Hawke._

No need for stealth. Not anymore. Fenris activated his lyrium and kicked in the door.

Thick shadows oozed grudgingly away from the light and pooled in the corners of a room rank with sweat, sex and recent death. The metallic tang of blood could not overpower the cloying stench. Fenris knew the scent well, had stopped letting it bother him long ago. Now, though, he balked in the doorway, his arm lifting to cover his nose and mouth.

The lack of magic indicated he would likely find Anders dead. Although he had entered the Fade with that intent, the reality sickened him. Hope reared its ugly head once again. Maybe he had managed to wake the mage after all and Anders had killed Hawke. Maybe he would not need to kill either of the men he couldn't help but love even after all that had happened.

He steeled himself for what he might find and pushed his way in. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness._ No Anders_, he realized. His persistent hope ballooned in his chest and gut.

Then he saw the Viscount, naked and sprawling indolently in the blankets next to a dead woman, and that fledgling hope crumpled under the return of misery, fear and rage.

Hawke didn't look surprised as he sluggishly sat up and squinted against the light. "Fenris," he said, his voice warm. "I knew you would be back."

"Only to put you out of your misery," Fenris growled through his constricted throat.

"What misery?" Hawke murmured. He played a broad hand over his own chest and stomach, fingers brushing over the ridges of muscle, and finally came to rest on his flaccid flesh. "I'm not miserable. Neither were you." His familiar smile flashed through his beard. "We're a family. You. Me. Anders." He glanced over, toward the body and the empty space on the bed. "Well, once we get him back. Fenris, Anders shouldn't be alone out there. He's fragile. Let's go find him." The man, with careful movements, edged to the side of the bed and stood.

Hawke's body, his nakedness, his calm voice, his gentle expression... They nearly overwhelmed his former lover. Fenris recoiled, stepping back until his shoulder hit the door frame.

"Don't be afraid, Fenris. My dear Fenris." Hawke opened his arms. "I'm not angry with you. I just want you by my side."

_Now! Do it now! He is weak and undefended!_ Fenris grit his teeth, gripped Bloom and readied himself to swing at the broad, naked chest. _I will end this now._

Hawke smiled lazily.

Fenris brought his axe down.

He missed. Bloom's blade, glimmering with ice and devastation, hissed through the air a hair's breadth away from Hawke's skin.

The rogue shivered exaggeratedly. "That tickled," he murmured. "I like it." He approached, his gaze soft and gentle, his posture and his scent so familiar and comforting. He reached out to touch the back of a calloused hand to Fenris' cheek. His lips parted to speak.

The Viscount inhaled sharply, his eyes widening. It broke the spell of his voice. Fenris flinched away, his skin crawling at how he had so nearly been tainted, again. Hawke coughed and his lips glistened wetly. He coughed again and dark liquid spattered from his mouth and nose. His gaze turned downward as the flesh of his chest bulged outward, just below his ribs.

The skin split in an eruption of black ichor. A gleaming blade followed. Hawke's hand dropped to the shimmering, enchanted metal of Zevran's sword, as though the man was surprised, perhaps delighted. Even as his thick blood oozed down his stomach, he merely chuckled.

With a grinding, squelching, sucking noise, the blade retracted. Zevran stepped out from behind Hawke, his breath heavy, his eyes blazing.

"For my Warden," he spat. "Now you die, demon!"

Hawke's chuckle turned into a laugh. He smeared his blood over his belly and grinned, staring intently at Fenris. "You can't kill me," he said.

"Oh, I don't know," Zevran growled. "I have killed a lot of things." He poised to strike and lunged forward, his sword leading.

"Zev-" Fenris started, but too late.

Hawke moved in a blur. His black, blood-stained hand closed around the assassin's throat and lifted Zevran clear off the floor.

Zevran snarled and stabbed his blade through Hawke's thick wrist. More of the black, pitch-like blood gouted from the wound. It dripped in clumps to the floor.

Hawke didn't flinch. He squeezed and Zevran released a pained moan. "I didn't want them to know so soon," Hawke said conversationally, quirking a dark brow. "I suppose it had to happen eventually, though." He hefted Zevran toward the window.

Fenris choked when Hawke turned. From the black wound in his back, under the dark, sticky fluid, something moved. Like worms, like black maggots, things _moved_ under his skin. _Squirming._

Some of the blood on the floor wriggled over the stone and under a rug.

The dark blood on the Viscount's wrist crept toward Zevran's face.

"And I won't need them for much longer, anyway," Hawke purred.

Zevran's lips had turned faintly blue. His eyes bugged and he scrabbled at Hawke's wrists with less and less strength.

_Not again_, Fenris thought. Anger, frustration, fear, vengeance surged and burnt away any remaining reluctance. This..._thing_...was not the Hawke of his memories. That man died long ago, destroyed by Danarius. This was a monster, created by the magister just as surely as he had destroyed Leto to create Fenris. And the monster that wore Hawke's face, the very same one that murdered the Hero of Ferelden and so many others, was about to kill another good man.

Roaring, Fenris swept forward and slammed Bloom deep into Hawke's hip. The blade bit into the flesh with no resistance; like the bone wasn't where it should have been.

Hawke threw Zevran away. The assassin smashed through the bedchamber window and disappeared from site with a thin wail. The Viscount whirled on Fenris, insane rage on his face, his hands clawing the air.

Fenris wrenched away and a flood of darkness followed Bloom's blade. He readied himself for another attack, but the walls were too close, Hawke was too close. The elf skittered backward into the antechamber.

"It won't work, dear Fenris," Hawke crooned. His eyes and mouth were black and dripping. He followed Fenris into the other room, where the light from the rising sun speared in through the window and made him so much more ghastly to look upon.

_Darkspawn?_ Fenris wondered. _Demon? No, something else..._

"You can't kill me." The flesh under Hawke's skin writhed. "I'm too important. I am the gateway. I am a god. I am immortal." His grin squirmed. "Join me."

"Never." Fenris attacked in earnest, reaching forward with a giant swing.

Hawke laughed and jumped away. "In that case, I will get another collar made."

Fenris snarled and dashed forward in a mad scythe.

Again, he missed.

Finally, the Tevinter concentrated on his lyrium and spirit pulsed.

It staggered the Viscount. Fenris quickly took advantage of the man's weakness to bring Bloom down on his shoulder, nearly tearing off the Viscount's arm.

When Fenris disengaged his blade, though, the black, writhing maggots stretched across the wound and began to knit it back together as the horrified Tevinter watched.

"You can't kill me," Hawke said again. "But I see you won't give in so easily. Perhaps after playing with my servants, you'll feel more... willing." He snapped his fingers.

The sound reverberated, deeper and more terrible than it should have been.

A wail answered from the bulk of the palace.

_Undead_, Fenris recognized. _Revenants. Lots of them_.

He couldn't take them all on. His only chance was to take Hawke out before his servants arrived.

The Tevinter leapt, roaring, and severed Hawke's head from his body.

Black tar bulged out of the wound. In mere moments, it formed a chin, nose, ears, hair. Its eyes opened. It smiled. "That was just unkind," it said.

Fenris didn't have a chance to respond before the antechamber doors burst inward, shards of wood spraying across the room. Ghostly and distorted, Revenants flooded into the room, coiling around each other, grinning at Fenris.

Fenris clenched his teeth, dropped into a crouch, and leapt away. He smashed through the window.

The wind howled in his ears. For a heartbeat, he felt suspended in the air, before the earth's pull dragged him down. The tawny ground surged up to meet him.

Luckily, one of Hawke's soldiers got in the way.

Fenris landed on the human, felt the uneven crunch of bones snapping beneath him, and rolled forward. He got his feet under him and ran. When he glanced back, he saw Hawke's army boiling out of the palace, their weapons lifted, their faces twisted in a terrible, violent joy. From the broken windows, the Revenants followed, their robes wriggling like eels behind their desiccated faces.

There was Hawke, in one piece and grinning, crouched on the window ledge. "Run, beloved Fenris," he called. "Run until you're tired. Then you will be mine once more!"

Fenris lowered his head and forced his legs to move faster, to push harder.

Then he saw a body, crumpled in the dried grasses of the palace garden, blond hair fanning around a slack face.

_Zevran!_ Fenris skidded to a halt over the assassin. He couldn't stoop to check for life signs, but he would not assume otherwise. _He must be alive!_

Fenris turned back to the oncoming horde, Bloom up and ready, blood surging madly through his body. He would fight them all if he must. He would not run, not now.

A Revenant and a dozen ragged swordsman arrived first. Fenris reared back to attack.

Before he could, a brilliant white glyph flashed into existence under their feet and the entire battalion stopped in their tracks, paralysed.

_Magic! Anders!_ The flavour was too familiar to mistake. Fenris' initial response to magic, fear and hatred, didn't come. He felt exhilaration, almost a giddy relief. _No_, he snapped at himself. _It's a trick! A __trap!_ _Anders betrayed me once! He would do so again! _Despite his fears, something inside him hoped otherwise. He looked around for the man, head whirling this way and that, and finally spotted him.

Anders stood atop the garden wall, garbed in an unfamiliar coat, arms lifted. He looked... normal. No light in his eyes. No blue glow. Instead, green energy wreathed his hands and he shouted aloud some arcane word of life, of hope. The area around Fenris was suddenly suffused in pale light.

Zevran groaned and shifted. "All right," he muttered hoarsely. "I am awake. Stop yelling."

_He brought Zevran back_, Fenris realized, his heart lurching. _He's healing!_

An arrow struck the dirt next to his foot. Fenris' priorities staggered into place. He reached down, grabbed Zevran by the armour, and sprinted toward Anders and the garden wall. Hawke's army followed close behind.

"Why do I keep waking up like this?" Zevran muttered.

"Shut up and run," Fenris growled, dragging the assassin.

Anders gathered another bright, writhing field of magic and sent a blinding bolt of spirit energy at them. Briefly, Fenris feared that Anders was attacking him, but the bolt sizzled past and struck someone else.

_He woke up_, the elf thought. His elation vanished, though, at the thought that Hawke might get the mage back. His eyes narrowed as he sprinted toward salvation. _This time I will not let him go._

Anders and the wall drew near. The human's expression cracked in a broad smile, which quickly dropped into fear as Fenris, Zevran held firmly under one arm, launched himself up toward him.

"Fen-" the mage started.

Fenris caught him in the gut with a sharp shoulder and flung all of them to the other side of the wall.

Where the ground promptly ended and the river began, at the bottom of a hundred foot cliff.

_Shit._


	31. Chapter 31

**Warnings:** Angst and my favourite cliche.

**Summary:** And they make good their escape.

**Author's Note: **I won't lie. This chapter's for me. ;) I hope you enjoy it, too, though.

**Playlist Recommendation:**

Haunted - Poe

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty-one**

Anders' elation, sparked by Fenris' approach (_He's alive! He saw me! He loves me! He's coming over here!_), swiftly vanished when the bloody elf's sharp shoulder knocked the breath out of him and he wound up plummeting off the edge of the bloody cliff.

_That's the river_, he thought innanely, moments before crashing into the frigid, dark brown surface.

The impact shocked him into a moment of paralysis. He hung in the dimness, his existence whittled down to the confusion of flailing legs, the drag of his robes, the ache in his lungs and stomach. Someone kicked him in the face and he nearly lost his staff. For a desperate moment, he didn't know which way was up. He thrashed about, panicked when he felt the constraints of his wet, clinging clothing, and gashed his elbow against something hard. His staff, though, pulled away from him. He kept a desperate grip on it and gasped in a painful breath as the buoyant staff pulled him to the surface of the water.

Two elves emerged nearby.

"Fenris," Anders breathed. _I thought I'd lost you._ He forgot the river, forgot the cold. He yearned to close the distance between them, to brush aside the tendrils of dripping white hair, to feel the warmth of the elf's dark skin. The mage tried to splash closer, but only managed to tangle his staff in his coat.

Fenris shook back his pale, sodden hair, glanced toward Anders, scowled, and turned his glare away.

"This was your plan?" demanded the other elf, thickly accented. He struck out to the side, spraying an arc of dark water. "We nearly had him!"

"He destroyed us," growled Fenris.

Fenris' voice sent Anders reeling into a rapid storm of memories, some vivid, some hazy, some little more than scraps of dream. He remembered the powerful body arched over him, the glow of lyrium reflected in a simmering glare, the taste of salt and musk, the coveted sensation of loving and being loved... That voice, low and intense, had existed for so long in only Anders' mind, that hearing it again came as a stronger shock than hitting the river. It rendered the mage speechless.

"And you brought the abomination with us," continued Fenris' companion. He leered at Anders, tossed a tangle of wet blond hair aside, and added, "I hope so you can torture him at your leisure."

Anders forced himself back into the present, focusing on the cold and the sting of his bruised cheek to ground him in reality. "Zevran?" he said slowly, finally placing the accent and large, wide-set eyes. "What? What are you doing here?"

"Drowning," snapped the assassin. "What does it look like? I went to slay your master and now I tread water like a rat." His glower shifted to Fenris. "You swore to help me kill Hawke, not hurl me off a cliff!"

_'Kill Hawke.'_ The words reverberated in Anders' mind, blocking out Fenris' annoyed response. _They want to kill him? But why?_ He flinched from the answer, refusing to look at it directly. _It was my fault, though! _His chest and belly swarmed with a sudden agony of fear and anger. _It was me, not Hawke!_

_Do you know what you did? _he demanded of himself.

_Fenris, Hawke, the Warden, the others, all the others, you did this to them._

This time, nothing snapped him out of his tortured thoughts. Anders gasped and clung to his staff, shaking in misery, overcome by blistering flashbacks. Faces, screams, the scent of burning flesh and fear. They flooded his mind, with no order and no reason.

This time he could not escape. He sank, drowning, lost-

"Anders!"

A strong grip on his collar wrenched him back. Fenris bobbed next to him, frowning. The elf shook the mage roughly, rattling sense back into his head, and pulled his gauntleted hand back when Anders blinked at him.

"We have to go!" Fenris' green eyes flicked up.

When Anders followed the elf's gaze, he saw the host of Hawke's soldiers edging the cliff. Some started to climb down as others drew their bows and the few apostates worked to cast.

"Fenris," the mage gasped. Other images of the elf's face overlaid the drenched reality. An expression of shocked betrayal and grim acceptance struck the hardest, dug the deepest. He reached for Fenris like he should have reached out before, in that dark place, with the demons all around and Danarius looking on. "I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm so sorry!"

"Later," Fenris replied sharply. "Now swim!"

Anders obeyed. He didn't know what else to do, other than trusting Fenris to lead him.

"To the boats," Zevran uttered as he surged forward with a strong breaststroke. He pointed his chin toward the forest of masts and sails down river from the palace. "I saw an Antivan vessel in the docks. We can bribe ourselves aboard."

"He'll come looking for us." Fenris somehow managed to look graceful and at ease, despite the weight of his axe and armour. He scythed as swiftly through the water as he would through an enemy. "We would be vulnerable on a ship."

"Then we should swim the rest of the way?" Zevran replied waspishly.

"Just past the city. We can get out on the north side and walk from there."

"And starve to death." Zevran scoffed. "Are you a forest elf, my friend? I assure you, I am not!"

The conversation faded as the elves drew further and further away from the struggling mage. Anders floundered more than he swam, encumbered by his floating staff and his own weakness. His limbs felt leaden and his lungs burned, though water splashed into his mouth and down into his belly. _So tired_, he thought. _Maker, I'm so tired._

His movements slowed. He tried to force his legs and arms to move, but his feeble kicks would not longer him forward. His vision went flat, grey and indistinct. A persistent ringing deafened him.

"Hold onto me." The command shocked him awake. Anders hadn't seen Fenris approach until the elf had already pulled the mage's hand to his own belt. "Stay awake." Clawed fingers forced Anders' head around, to meet Fenris' intent stare. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Anders whispered.

"To the boats, then," Zevran said cheerfully.

"Indeed," Fenris agreed. His touch lingered on Anders' cheek, his eyes roved and his brows pulled together. "You have nothing left," he observed quietly. "Hawke took it all."

"I was already nothing," Anders replied numbly.

Fenris abruptly scowled and turned away. "Hold on," he ordered again.

They swam until the sun was well-above the city. As they approached the bobbing ships in the Nevarra City docks, their conversation died and Zevran took the lead, slowly paddling between the great bulks of the river-going trade and war ships. Overhead, the voices of the sailors called to each other as they went about their morning routines, and the sounds echoed strangely down at the water. A terrible stench lingered here and and the trio passed bits of debris and refuse that Anders didn't even want to think about. Most vessels flew Nevarran flags, but some bore the colours of other nations: the Free Marches, the Imperium, Rivain, and finally, Antiva.

Zevran arrowed toward the brightly painted ship. "Stay here," he told his companions at the bottom. "I will test the waters, so to speak." He reached up and nimbly began to climb, using little more than ornamental woodwork and small portholes as handholds. Dripping, he disappeared over the railing.

Fenris clung to an iron ring close to the water line with one hand and held Anders around the waist with the other arm. He leaned his head back against the ship's side and his eyes slid closed. Anders looked him over, recognizing lines of pain and fatigue on the elf's face, knowing that he caused them.

Anders had few options, though, other than resting against the elf and waiting. The swim had emptied and exhausted him so greatly that even the snippets of memory ceased to haunt him.

They didn't wait for long. To Anders, it felt like mere heartbeats passed before a loop of rope splashed into the water directly in front of them. Fenris startled, his grip suddenly tightening, but Anders just looked on dully.

"Well!" Humour laced the warm, ringing female voice. "You going to join us, or do I have to climb down there?"

Isabela's dusky and grinning face appeared over the rail, ebony waves falling around her shoulders from under a new, brilliantly scarlet and yellow bandana.

"I don't believe this," Fenris muttered. He didn't argue, though. He released the boat and manhandled the rope around Anders.

The mage tried to help, but his efforts only hindered the elf. Eventually, when his elbow got in the way of the rope, Fenris gripped Anders' arms, snapped, "Hold still," and wrenched the thick hemp around the man's waist. The mage hung listlessly.

Finally, Fenris called up, "Ready!" He hoisted himself next to Anders, one bare foot wedged between the human and the rope, his strong hands holding on above Anders' head.

From the ship, Isabela shouted directions in Antivan. A chorus of male grunts and groans answered her and the rope jerked the two water-logged fugitives up and out of the river.

With four great heaves, they had risen enough for Fenris to hop up onto the rail. He turned and hauled Anders up himself, setting the human onto the deck with surprising gentleness. Anders' knees, despite his best intentions, immediately crumpled.

"Not quite the mighty blue General I saw a few days ago," Isabela commented. Her rounded shoulders shoved under Anders' arm, holding him upright while Fenris removed the rope.

"What are you doing here?" Fenris demanded. "On an Antivan ship in Nevarra?"

"All in good time, darling," she replied easily. "My men already spotted Hawke's troops coming down the wharves. I'd bet my last sov they're looking for you."

"We need to leave." Fenris leaned forward, as though he could, on his lonesome, drive the ship out of the city docks.

"Does this look like a galley?" She laughed. "A rowboat could chase us down." As she spoke, the busty captain pulled them toward a low door at the back of the ship.

By this point, Anders existed in a cold, shaky world of confusing sounds and colours. Anders leaned heavily on someone—_Fenris_, he realized with a flash of relief—and forced his boots to move. They ducked into a dim, golden place, polished wood gleaming in lantern light, and halted before a large desk covered in maps, books and rolled documents.

Isabela gave more brusque Antivan commands. Two large human men took either side of the desk and moved it aside. A third quickly rolled up the fine burgundy carpet covering the floor. The wooden slats under the carpet bore no visual differences, but another sailor pried up a section of the floor and revealed a small, coffin-like space.

"Smuggling," Fenris observed dryly. The nearness of his rumbling voice made Anders shiver, even through his mental fog. "What a shock." His firm touch moved Anders toward the niche. "Quickly," he urged.

"You, too, Fenris," Isabela said. "My other spots are full. You'll need to cuddle." Her grin became positively cat-like.

"What of me?" Zevran put in. "If they see a wet assassin wandering about on your boat-"

"Ship," Isabela corrected. "The _Island Queen_ is a ship. And I know exactly what to do with you. Take off your clothes."

Zevran blinked. Then he shrugged. "When you put it like that, how can I say no?"

"You," she added, nodding at Fenris and Anders. "Into the box."

Fenris sighed, but obeyed. He stepped down into the niche, pulling Anders with him. Dazed and confused, Anders followed. He knelt as Fenris bade him to kneel and lay down as Fenris urged.

They barely had room to breathe, once they were tucked together. Anders lay nearly crushed to Fenris' breastplate, his arms pinned to his sides by the elf's arms, his legs pinned by one of the elf's legs. Briefly, he tried to struggle, struck by a wave of claustrophobia.

"Anders," Fenris hissed. "Be still!" His green eyes glared at the human and his shallow breath warmed Anders' cheek.

The sudden shock of that nearness knocked Anders out of his panic and into a brief instance of lucidity.

_After all you've done, he's holding you, protecting you. If this is a second chance, Maker, I will not lose it._

"Fenris," he whispered earnestly, desperate to get the elf to understand the fear and joy trembling in his heart. "I can't—I hurt you, but you're here. I'm so sorry—"

Then the flooring slid back into place, plunging them into complete darkness and shoving Anders back into nightmares.

/.\./.\

Anders gasped and immediately began to struggle again.

Inwardly swearing, Fenris clamped his arms and legs around the man. "Hush," he murmured. "Anders. Be calm. Be still. Please."

"Fenris?" came the man's hoarse whisper. "Where are we?"

"Safe," the elf replied. _For now._

He listened to Isabela and her crew putting the room back to rights and Zevran stripping out of his weapons and armour. He had no idea what Isabela was up to, but he had long since arrived at a point of exhaustion where allowing someone else to come up with a plan was a necessity more than a choice.

Anders lay quiet for a time, only the strained rasp of his breath indicating his fear. Fenris felt the man shiver and realized how cold he must be. The mage retained only about half of his former bulk, with none of the reserves to survive a frigid swim in the Minanter.

_He brought this on himself_, Fenris reminded his softening heart, trying to harden it against the abomination. The protest came weakly, though, when he had seen so much of the man's inner mind, when Anders had made their escape from Hawke possible.

With a final, tooth-rattling _screech_, the movement of Isabela's furniture ceased. Several sets of footsteps retreated. In the quiet, Fenris could pick out soft voices and the rustle of fabric. _Isabela and Zevran_, he thought.

Anders trembled violently. "Maker," he choked, jaw moving against Fenris' brow. "I did something bad." His voice sounded young and afraid. "They put me in the box again."

_He's delusional_, Fenris realized. For lack of anything else to say, the elf murmured, "Shh." He tried to move his arm, to offer some form of comfort, but only managed to dig his gauntlet rather noisily into the wood above them.

"Fenris?" Anders whimpered. "Is that you?"

"Yes."

"I thought I'd lost you. I made a terrible mistake-"

"Shh." Fenris held the mage tighter. "They'll hear you."

"The Templars?"

"Yes." The elf grimaced with the lie, but could think of nothing else to say or do but play along.

Anders sighed. He shifted and his nose pressed into the elf's damp hairline. "I couldn't stand being without you. Now that Karl is dead. And Hawke is-" He cut himself off. His entire body bowed forward, as though he wanted to curl into a ball. "It's all my fault."

Distant hails cut past the burble of the river. Then Isabela said, clearly and quietly, "They're here."

The wood around them vibrated with heavy footsteps, distinct from the sailors' light tread. Fenris reflexively clutched Anders more tightly and prayed.

At least three bodies stopped in the cabin above them. "Captain Isabela," intoned a deep male voice.

_Aleksandr_, Fenris recognized, relieved. Malice, he was quite sure, could see through walls.

"We are here to search your boat," Hawke's General continued. "You will not interfere."

"Ship," Isabela corrected. She spoke in a breathless husk. "Please, don't let me stop you, honoured Gener—ah!" She cried out sharply, a cry of pleasure, and giggled. "I beg your pardon, serah. You've caught me in the middle of rewarding my employee of the mouth—I mean, month."

Zevran's chuckle was muffled.

Aleksandr made a noise of distaste. "Stand up, scum," he snapped.

"Aw," Isabela said, and Fenris could imagine her pout. "It was just getting good." Then she said something in Antivan.

Fenris picked out the light pad of Zevran's bare soles. He spoke a lyrical verse in Antivan as well, sounding like a question.

"No," Aleksandr said after a moment. "This isn't one of them. Search the rest of the boat."

The footsteps retreated. From the ship around them, Fenris could hear voices and the sounds of objects moving about. Above them, Isabela and Zevran continued their ruse, which became less ruse-like as time dragged on. For his part, Fenris' hip and shoulder began to ache terribly, and Anders fidgeted more and more. The sounds from the coupling above them, breathy gasps and throaty groans, mixed with the shifting of the mage between his legs, became a challenge of a different sort.

"I missed you so much," Anders suddenly babbled. "Fenris, I never should have let you go, but I thought it was for the best." Hysteria edged the urgent declaration. "I was so wrong! I hurt you, I thought you were dead-"

"Shh," Fenris hurriedly hushed him, ears straining for any indication that someone had heard. "Later. Be quiet."

"No, I have to tell you, you have to know-"

Someone stomped on the wood directly above them.

Anders flinched, cried out and returned to his previous delusion. "The Templars-"

Another stomp shook the floor.

Desperately, Fenris tilted his chin up and put his mouth over Anders', swallowing whatever the mage babbled next.

Anders responded immediately, apparently sliding into another delusion. His fingers dug into Fenris' waist and his lips parted hungrily. His hips jerked and his chest pushed against Fenris' breastplate, as though he could meld their bodies together.

_No, no, no_, part of Fenris' mind chanted in a mad panic. _I don't want this!_

The rest of him, though, remembered this, remembered what he once owned. His leg hooked around Anders' knee and he gripped the mage at the small of the back, suddenly ravenous for contact, for pressure and friction. Heat swelled in his loins, so abruptly that a groan worked itself out of his throat.

_Mine_. A voice from back, months ago, when he had first claimed the mage. It held more violence now, a blending of need and anger, for so long smothered under helplessness and necessity.

Blood roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the ship and its searchers. Fenris tried to roll the mage, to get at a better angle of attack, and promptly stuck his shoulder spikes into the wooden cover.

A flurry of stomping pounded around them, from either Isabela or Zevran. Fenris growled, glaring up into the blackness, and thought, _If I decapitate Aleksandr now, would I get some peace?_

Reason took hold, barely, and reminded him that several blighted idiots waited to take the mage General's place. Killing him would accomplish nothing.

"My men heard something," Aleksandr declared, startling Fenris into some facsimile of calm. He hadn't heard the man's approach. "Thumping," the mage added slowly. "And, uh, groaning."

"Imagine that," Isabela purred.

"Ugh." Aleksandr uttered.

"I hope you're about finished," the pirate continued. "My queen expects me back soon with these goods, and I know that the Viscount appreciates Antivan support in this tumultuous time."

At the word 'Viscount,' Fenris felt Anders stiffen and tremble. The elf held him tightly and nipped the mage's lip to distract him from whatever nightmare he was sliding into. Anders huffed and leaned into the kiss.

Isabela added, chuckling, "Or have you found something that you think requires... deeper investigation?"

"Ugh," Hawke's General coughed again. "No. We're done here."

"Ah, good."

Fenris listened to Aleksandr's soldiers retreat, becoming weak with relief. Then he froze when Aleksandr suddenly asked, his tone suspicious, "You didn't ask what we sought."

Isabela laughed smoothly. "Darling, with a face like yours, I'd let you poke around my ship as much as you'd like. From prow to poop deck. You don't need a reason."

Fenris' listened carefully to a moment of silence. Then came Aleksandr's clipped, "Good day, captain," and hurried step away from the cabin.

The sounds of the soldiers retreated and became distant.

"We'll let you out when we're away from Nevarra," Isabela said. Her voice moved as she spoke, she was walking out onto the deck. "Get comfortable."

Fenris cleared his throat and grumbled, "Flames take you, Rivaini."

The pirate chuckled again, sounding delighted. "Aw, I can tell you're having fun, love." Then she was gone, calling orders to her sailors, Zevran's boot heels following behind her.

In this damp, dark place, Fenris yielded to desires that had lain dormant, banked like embers for a long and terrible night. Desire to kill, to take retribution for the manipulation and betrayal, fought with desire to reclaim the love that Anders once offered. _I know it was real; I've seen your innermost mind. I've seen your dreams. _With tooth and tongue, Fenris reminded Anders of all that had passed between them, from their first rivalry, to the tempestuous romance, to the pain and humiliation he had suffered. He bit those repentant lips and startled at the sudden iron tang of blood and Anders' whimper.

_Just a taste_, Fenris thought, thirsting after vengeance.

He jerked away, disconcerted. _No! Revenge...it does nothing. _

Before he could decide, Anders found him. The mage shuddered, feet scrabbling against the wood as he pressed closer. He sobbed deep in his throat and closed his blood-slick lips over Fenris'.

_You beg for forgiveness?_ Wondering at the desperation in the mage's touch, he gentled and accepted the stained kiss.

With no room to move, they lay, locked in a desperate embrace. After a time, with the ship creaking around them, Anders went still and Fenris realized that his kisses fell on unconscious lips. The elf released a frustrated huff and resisted the urge to shake his companion awake. Here, in the darkness, he could have what he wanted, where cruel light would snatch it away with reminders of who they were and what they had done.

Fenris held the mage's wasted body tightly and let his forehead rest where he could feel Anders' deep, rhythmic breath against his skin.

_I never stopped loving you_, he admitted silently, before his immense fatigue overcame him and sent him tumbling after the mage.

The _screeeeach!_ of wood on wood brought him roughly awake. Fenris startled and cracked the back of his head against the side of their prison, sparking phantom lights in his vision. Then the wooden slats lifted and true light blinded his sensitive eyes. He hurriedly flung an arm up to cover his face, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulder.

"They look so cozy," Isabela chortled.

"They stink," Zevran commented. He sounded less than pleased.

"They need to dry out."

Fenris blinked his watering eyes and squinted up at Isabela, where she gloated over them. "We're safe?" he rasped.

"With that snake in your arms? Hah!" Behind the pirate, a bare-chested Zevran folded his own arms in disapproval.

Fenris worked himself up onto his elbow, hissing and cringing at the numbness in his limbs, the ache where the cold and wet had sunk in. He looked down the length of his body, noting how tightly entwined he and Anders had become in the darkness.

_Anders_. Now, with light piercing in, Fenris' angry passion stumbled over his distrust and betrayal. He didn't know what to do.

"Anders," he said roughly, shaking the man by the shoulder. "Wake up."

No response. Anders' eyes remained closed, his lids deeply shadowed, his sunken cheek a brilliant red. When Fenris felt his forehead, the intense heat shocked him.

"Fever," he muttered.

"Take him to my bunk," Isabela ordered. "Get him out of his clothes."

Fenris obeyed, ignoring the stiffness in his legs. His confusion, though, with the mage a light burden in his arms, was more difficult to ignore. _Deal with it later_, he told himself. _Just keep moving._

One careful step at a time, he carried Anders to Isabela's cabin.

"We can still throw him overboard!" Zevran called after him.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's Note:** What's this? A new chapter? Huzzah! Many grovelling, dribbling thank yous to PaulaH, who keeps me honest and teaches me so very, very much.

**Warnings:** Angst. Emotions. Confusion. More angst. Planning. Maps. Talking. Lack of fighting (sob).

**Recommended Playlist:**

Haunted - Poe  
Fingertips - Poe

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty-two**

Neither Fenris' training in Tevinter nor his experiences in Kirkwall had prepared him for what he faced in Isabela's cabin on the _Island Queen_.

_It's easier to kill a man than heal him_, Fenris grumbled to himself, gingerly holding a cold, wet cloth to Anders' burning forehead.

The mage mewled his distress, tossed his head and rolled away. He burrowed into the blankets like a rodent, until only the ridge of his spine and the blades of his shoulders jutted into the open air.

Fenris scowled and thought about dumping a bucket of cold water on his patient. Surely, that would do a better job than a single cloth.

_That's how he got like this in the first place, though_. Fenris sighed and sank back into his chair. _Now, for some reason, I'm supposed to apply just a little bit of cold and wet to him and he's supposed to get better._ Isabela had been kind enough to offer both her bed and her advice, but, after a day of this, Fenris doubted her wisdom as a healer.

"Keep his head cool and give him as much water as you can," she had instructed. "Broth is even better. Salt and water. Then he'll just burn the sickness out."

"Right." Fenris glowered at the invalid. "Perhaps lighting you on fire would help."

Anders mumbled something indistinct and thrashed back around. The mage's eyes opened widely, but they followed things that Fenris couldn't see. "No," he muttered plaintively, voice a pained whisper. "Please..."

Steeling himself, Fenris slid his fingers into Anders' tangled, sweat-soaked hair and lifted the mage's head. Touching Anders had become a physical trial; Anders _burned _from more than fever. Magic seeped out of him and scalded Fenris' palm. With the other hand, Fenris hurriedly dumped some warm liquid—broth, Isabela had assured him—between Anders' dry lips.

"Anders," he said firmly. "Drink this."

The mage struggled against him, swallowed convulsively, then lost most of it in the sheets. "I don't want to drink it!" he suddenly wailed. "I don't want to be a warden!" He tore away and hid again.

Fenris rubbed his hand against his thigh, encouraging the tingle to fade away.

"Pounce, Pounce, they took you away from me," Anders continued, muffled. "Everything's taken away. All I have left are hurlocks and memories."

_Pathetic._ Fenris barricaded his heart against pity. He looked on Anders' shaking, sweating figure with nothing but disdain. _Weak. Useless._

"Yes," Anders moaned and started to cry.

For a time, Anders seemed to settle into real, if uneasy, sleep. Fenris managed to prod him over onto his back and place another cold cloth on the mage's flushed forehead. He ruminated on Anders' frail figure as he scratched his itching lyrium. The man had been eaten from within by Hawke and Justice, turning him into a thin vessel; magic leaked from him like a punctured flask.

Eventually, Isabela returned, bringing a meal for Fenris and questions for Anders.

"We need to set a course," she said from the door, hand propped against a wide hip. "We're well away from Nevarra now."

"Yes." Fenris picked at some kind of dried meat, tentatively biting into it. "I would not say that he is especially lucid, but you might get something."

"Even just a direction. We can get more from him when he's awake." The pirate approached, bent over the mage and touched his face. Fenris noticed, with some annoyance, that she didn't seem to have any trouble with the excessive magical leakage.

Zevran crowded in after her, wrinkling his nose as he settled on a stool near the door. "It stinks in here," he complained. "How do you stand it?"

Fenris shrugged. "I have a choice?"

"Leave him. Let him recover or not, as the Maker sees fit."

"Knowing my luck, a demon will take over." Fenris glanced toward Isabela and the mage, talking quietly together. Miraculously, Isabela seemed to be getting something from him. "Someone must watch him."

"Then kill him. Poison him as he sleeps. More than he deserves, really."

"We need him," Fenris replied without thinking. At Zevran's narrow-eyed stare, he hurriedly added. "For information. We need to know what Hawke is doing."

Zevran pressed his lips together and glared away. Fenris swallowed a sigh and a twinge of regret at the assassin's anger. Since they first met, Zevran had given him only support, affection, forgiveness and his ready blades. Memories of Hawke and Anders had cast long shadows over Fenris' heart, though. He could barely accept friendship, much less the intimacy Zevran so overtly desired.

_He gave a part of himself to you_, Fenris reminded himself, nearly reaching up to touch his ear. _A promise. If Anders hadn't come back, then maybe—_

"Ah, balls," Isabela swore, startling Fenris out of his thoughts. She sighed and straightened. Pushing back her hair, she reported, "Hawke's going north. That's all I got before he dropped out. Bloody cryptic, though. Something about tricks."

"We need him," Fenris said again, more firmly. "He should be able to tell us more. Eventually."

"Feh."

Isabela looked between Fenris and Zevran. "I feel I'm missing something. Perhaps one of you would care to remind me why we despise Anders? I mean, I heard he blew the Kirkwall Chantry, but-"

"There is more. Far more."

An elegant brow rose. "And?" Isabela persisted.

Fenris made to rise. "We'll talk in the other room-" he started.

Anders' hand lashed out and clamped around Fenris' wrist. "Don't go," he wailed. His brown eyes suddenly peered out, dark with fear and entreaty. "Don't leave me alone!"

Fenris hissed as magic rampaged up and down his arm. He resisted the urge to wrench his wrist away; something about the naked desperation in the mage compelled him to stay. After a moment, his lyrium gentled into a low, not entirely unpleasant heat. Slowly, the elf settled back into his chair.

"You jest, surely," scoffed Zevran. "You will not sit here, letting him hold your hand? After what he did? To you? To the Warden?"

_He's right._ And keeping Anders here, alive, was like a betrayal in itself, against those he had wronged.

Fenris wrestled with himself, trying to pull away. His body would not obey. He felt locked in place, held as much by his own need as Anders'. _I cannot leave him here, alone in this nightmare. _Love, betrayal, responsibility, anger and fear knotted together, wrapped in memories of happiness and completion. Now that he had Anders back, he didn't want to let go, as much as logic and reason told him to yield to Zevran's suggestions and throw the mage overboard.

_He did save your life_, he offered his struggling conscience. _Both yours and Zevran's. Perhaps all is not lost._

"I..." He started to apologize, but let his voice die. He couldn't be sure what to apologize for, whether for his own lack of response to Zevran, his continuing idiocy regarding Anders, or both. "I will tell you later," he finally murmured, looking to Isabela.

Her amber gaze trailed over him, over the mage, over the strange bond between them. She quirked a small smile. "I'll hold you to that, love." She paced away and snagged Zevran by a shoulder guard. "Come on. I haven't had a good fight in ages."

The assassin cast a last, disgruntled expression back toward his fellow elf. "This is a mistake, Mother Fenris," he called.

Anders' grip, though his eyes remained tightly closed, did not falter. Fenris rested his chin in his other palm and stared down at the mage's gaunt face. _I am sure that it is_, he thought. _But I will make it, anyway._

/.\./.\

Anders lay shivering in a small bed that heaved and swayed under him. Ghosts crowded around him, their shadowed eyes glaring with silent recrimination. Karl, Hope, Hawke, Fenris, Isabela, the Warden, Marilyn... They came and went in turn, watching him. Accusing him.

Sometimes, they spoke to him.

"Which way is Hawke going?" asked one. "Anders, which way?"

"North," Anders murmured automatically.

"Into the Imperium?" A figure loomed out of the darkness, her face shifting under his gaze. He could barely focus enough to recognize her. Isabela. He had always liked her, despite her nonchalance toward the plight of mages. He found it impossible not to. Everyone else took life too seriously. No one else seemed to realize the futility of existence if you didn't do it _well_. "What about the Magisters?" Her touch felt cool on his cheek.

"Sleight of hand," Anders told her, chuckling. The ghosts echoed him. "He's always so good at it. Tricks. Misdirection." His chuckle became a cough, the cough became a sucking void of oblivion.

"Balls," the pirate cursed, her voice fading. "He's slipping away again."

The ghosts remained. They asked questions about Hawke, most of which he couldn't answer without sobbing. Some fed him a thin, salty broth. Others lay cold cloths on his head, so cold that they hurt, and swore when he shook them off.

Justice sat beside him, glowing faintly, unmoving while the shadow figures moved in and out of reality around him. Anders lay in his bed and focused on the spirit as one of the only fixtures in the room. Justice's shoulders bowed under a great weight, his helm tilted forward as though staring at his gauntlets. "I AM BLIND," he intoned hollowly. His voice rang more in Anders' head than in his ears. "I AM BLIND."

"You aren't," Anders argued hoarsely. "You always saw the truth."

Justice's helm rotated and the eye slit flashed red. "I ONLY SAW WHAT YOU WANTED ME TO SEE!" he suddenly roared and lunged toward the mage.

Anders gasped and tried to throw himself backwards. His shoulders immediately pressed against wood, and he flashed back to the box. He was trapped. Trapped in the box again. Alone. Always alone. Thrashing in the tangled blankets, weak, shaking, trying to cry out but so full of sickness that the air couldn't get into his lungs.

"Shh." A lithe, dark shadow replaced Justice. He tugged the blankets back into order. "Go back to sleep," he rumbled.

"No," Anders whimpered. "Don't go." He reached out and clutched a strong, wiry wrist that hummed with power. "Please don't go."

The shadow sighed, but did not object. He took Justice's place and became the unmoving fixture for Anders to focus on while the rest of his world swam around him. He sat and watched while Anders lapsed into uncomfortable slumber.

A quiet conversation drew Anders back out of oblivion. He ached everywhere, from the throb of his skull to the dull pain in his joints. _Fever_, he realized vaguely, his sluggish mind attempting to take stock. He lay, curled in a ball, under soft blankets in a comfortable bed. When he opened his dry, gummy eyes, a blank wooden wall met his gaze. Behind him, he heard voices.

"We know what he's after."

_Fenris._ Something deep in Anders' chest relaxed at the rich rumble.

Anders forced himself to move, to shift and roll against the drag of exhaustion. Desire to see Fenris urged him past weariness, past pain. He didn't stop struggling until his hungry gaze found the elf.

Fenris sat on a plain wooden chair, arms crossed and legs outstretched, taking up the slim space between Anders' bunk and the wall. He looked different from Anders' old memories, wearing only dark brown leathers and no armour.

"The Eluvian," Fenris continued. He glanced briefly to Anders and away again, perhaps not realizing that Anders had woken completely. White strands of hair fell over his brow and into his eyes, obscuring the dark green of his enormous irises. Grim, tired furrows marked his brow and deepened his frown, mapping the strain of the past year.

_I lost you because of my own stupidity._ Anders stared, drinking in the sight. _But now you're here again. Unless this is just another dream. If it is, I don't want to wake up._

"Then why stir up a war?" Isabela asked. She and Zevran perched on stools by the door, thigh-to-thigh, like roguish gulls. She, too, looked different from the pirate who sashayed her way through Kirkwall those years before—in a brighter bandana, her hair longer, more jewellery, and clothing of higher quality materials. The shadow of a smile flitting about her full lips, though, hadn't changed.

"I thought it was to get the Nevarran artifacts and build his army." Fenris shrugged. "But there's more to it. He wouldn't need the spawn for that."

Hawke's pleased voice purred out of the jumble of Anders' memories. _"They will come," he said, watching the Tevinter envoys retreat from the palace audience chamber. He chuckled. "They will come and bring all their men, all their toys."_

"He's drawing the Magisters," Anders interjected. The words felt like sandpaper. He coughed.

The other three fell silent and turned to him.

"You're awake?" Fenris asked, a dark brow lifted, his stare travelling over the mage.

"It's debatable," Anders croaked. He squirmed under the attention, coughed again, and added, "I, uh, I don't see dead men anymore, so I think so."

"At long last," Zevran drawled. His lip curled in a sneer. "We have the pleasure of your company."

Anders winced at the assassin's tone, but the bits of memory sparked by the sight of the elf were so much worse. "I'm sorry," he muttered, shrinking back. The Warden's ashen, deathly still face floated behind his eyes. "For everything. I'm so sorry."

Zevran snorted. "Not as sorry as you will be," he promised. "When we have no further need of you, mage, I will be ready."

"Zevran," Fenris interrupted quietly and without inflection. Anders couldn't tell if Fenris agreed with the other elf, or if the Tevinter objected to the threat.

With a jingle, Zevran shifted position, crossing his arms. He held Anders' stare, his lips curving into a dangerous smile. Then his gaze flicked to Fenris and his expression softened.

The meaning of that look struck Anders like a thunderbolt. _And why not? Why shouldn't he have moved on? Maker knows he deserves all the happiness Thedas has to offer._

"You said Hawke is drawing the Magisters?" Fenris prompted.

_This is why I'm still alive. They need my help. Then I die._ In his current condition, Anders found the idea of death not unpleasant, especially now, knowing he had lost Fenris so completely. So long as he knew not-Hawke would be dealt with, he didn't think he would argue.

Anders lifted a shaky hand to push sweat dampened hair away from his brow and cleared his dry throat. Speech took an inordinate amount of effort. Summoning information from the nightmare haze of fear and death stole the rest of his strength. "Like vultures," he explained haltingly. "Hawke lay a...a bloated corpse out for them. They can't not come to him."

"That's why they're collecting above the Silent Plains," Isabela said, nodding thoughtfully.

"Right." Anders tried to remember the last time he had seen a Magister. The Imperium had sent several of them to deal with the not-Hawke, and none had been able to do more than offer greater and greater bribes to the Viscount. His memories were indistinct, though. He couldn't remember the order or the outcome, only the sense that not-Hawke's influence over them had grown. "I don't know if they'll attack him. I think...I think they wanted him to stand down? Then they'll take the others. Nevarra, Ferelden-"

He spoke for too long. A cough ripped up from his chest, followed by a flock of its companions. Anders curled in on himself, his body shaking, trembling from the strain.

Silently, Fenris reached down to the floor and returned with a flask. He passed it to Anders without actually looking at him. "Did Danarius ever meet with him?" he asked a far corner of the room.

As soon as he could breathe again, Anders drained several long draughts of water before breathlessly answering. "No. No, I'm sure of it. Hawke wanted him. Wouldn't have let him go."

"Danarius has the Eluvian," the Tevinter murmured. "Of course Hawke wanted him. Danarius is too clever for that, though."

"So now Hawke will travel to the Imperium to get it," Isabela said.

"Yes," Fenris and Anders both answered. "The only question is when," Anders added. He remembered Hawke waiting for something, but couldn't recall what.

"And whether we will get there first," Fenris finished grimly.

/.\./.\

"After Hawke turned on me in Kirkwall, I took ship to Antiva," Isabela explained over their evening meal, taken in her cabin. "After an entertaining series of events, I wound up on an island with the Queen, fifteen casks of rum, forty-three bottles of essential oil and a royal galley worth of supplies." The pirate shrugged. "Some say I kidnapped her. I think it was quite the opposite. Anyway, now I'm an official emissary or some such." She touched her bright bandana. "She sent me to Nevarra to see what Hawke was up to."

"A spy," Fenris filled in. "For Antiva?"

"For the moment." She smirked.

Zevran's warm eyes glowed in the lantern light. "The Queen of Antiva and the Queen of the Seas," he murmured. "That thought alone could warm a man on a cold night."

The pirate winked. "You could come back with me, assassin. I'm sure your Queen would reward you quite handsomely."

"Perhaps." Zevran smirked and nodded toward Fenris. "Pleasure before business, though."

"We need to get to Vol Dorma," Fenris said. "As quickly as possible."

"The _Island Queen_ can take you as far as Caimen Brea." Isabela tapped the dot of the city on her map of Nevarra. "Before the river narrows too much to take her."

"There is nothing so painful as a narrow channel for a large object." Zevran quirked a blond eyebrow.

"Only the first time," Isabela purred in response.

"Are there roads through here?" Fenris asked loudly, tracing a dark finger over the map north of the city.

"I think so. We may be able to find horses."

"We?"

The Rivaini grinned. "I won't let you boys have all the fun." She rubbed her thumb over the delicate tracings of the Imperial Highway north of the Silent Plains. "This is where the Tevinters set up their war camps. Rumour is that they're just about ready to launch an attack on their old provinces."

Anders, having looked on the discussion with a sense of detachment, took an interest as a memory triggered. He paused in devouring his meal to say, "Hawke is ready for them. He ordered Malice, Aleksandr and the others to attack the moment the Imperium makes a move. Just enough to keep them occupied. Then he'll slip past."

"Of course," Fenris sighed. He leaned away and combed a hand through his white hair, shaking it out of his face. "This war is going to tear the world apart."

Anders watched the elf's profile, nearly as hungry for the sight of the other man as he had been for real food. Whenever Fenris spoke, a tiny voice sang in Anders' mind, _He's alive, he's alive, he's alive. _"It won't matter unless we get to Vol Dorma in time," the mage offered.

Fenris frowned at him.

Anders smiled hopefully.

The elf snorted and glared back toward the map.

"Is there anything we can do to slow Hawke down?" Isabela asked. "Set some traps for him?"

Fenris laughed shortly. "I know you are a talented woman," he said, "But that is a lot of land to cover." Between lyrium-traced thumb and middle finger, he encompassed the yellow smear of the Silent Plains. "Hawke can ferry across the river anywhere. And if anyone can make it through the desert without a road, it is him."

Anders stared at the map, his awareness thrown back to the two crossings he made of the plains, one at Fenris' side and the other at Hawke's. The recollections were distant, confused, a mess of heat, lust, anger, need and magic-

"Wait!" the mage blurted. He leaned forward eagerly and nearly lost his balance. After a moment to recover, braced against the desk and head hanging, Anders gasped, "I have a trap for him!" He tapped the easternmost curve of the river, south of Caimen Brea. "We need to stop here. I'll make it so no one can cross the Plains."

"What do you mean?" Fenris asked. He held himself away from Anders, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

The mage, excited by the plan formulating in his head, forgot the past year and quipped, "Don't you trust me?"

Zevran snorted loudly and Fenris' scowl darkened with betrayal.

"Er." Anders' good humour died. He sat back wearily. "I, um, sorry. You don't need to answer that." He looked to Fenris. The Tevinter immediately glared away, fierce green eyes avoiding Anders' stare. _Look at me_, he begged silently, but received only angry silence. "I can do it," he continued quietly. "I can send a storm."

"Will you be strong enough?" Fenris asked flatly.

"I think so." The mage made a fist. The flesh was weak and fragile, but the magic under the skin was there. Waiting. "Yes," he added more assuredly. "I'll call it from there and let it loose on the Plains." _There's no guarantee that I'll survive, but..._ He observed his companions and silently finished, _I don't think anyone will mind._

"It will take a week, maybe more, depending on the winds and currents."

"Then another two to Vol Dorma."

"Unless we find roads." Fenris nodded toward the featureless green landscape north of the Minanter.

"Well, we all know the Imperium." Zevran quirked a blond brow at the other elf. "The only thing more common than roads are the slaves."

"What will we do in Vol Dorma?" Isabela asked. She fiddled with a cartographer's compass as she spoke, spinning a hole into the wood of her desk. "Other than shopping, I mean?"

"Find Danarius," was Fenris' clipped answer. "And make him undo what he did."

/.\./.\

Anders slept only fitfully after the discussion with the other three travellers. His dreams were haunted by memories, longings, fears and Justice's persistent accusations. It was worse than when he became a Grey Warden; at least the evil in those dreams was from an external source and not his own rotten spirit.

After the third time he woke, shivering and nauseated, the mage pushed aside his damp sheets and rose.

Deep night shrouded the ship. Through the thick glass of a porthole, Anders saw nothing but blackness. The lantern by the cabin door burned low, a tiny circle of light in an otherwise dark world. The ship creaked and groaned around him, talking to the babble of the river. Through the thick glass of a porthole, Anders saw nothing. Suddenly, he felt violently lonely, terribly lost and isolated in this fragile bubble of light. _Fenris_, he thought wistfully. _Is it wrong that I need you? Even now?_

He found his robes folded on a chest at the end of the narrow bunk and dressed. He finger-combed his hair away from his face, grimacing at how long it had become, and wished he had a decent hair tie. As it was, the golden strands fell into his face and caught on his stubble.

_Maybe Zevran will shave me_, he thought, chuckling inwardly. _He'd leap for a chance at my throat, I'm sure._

Trailing a hand along the cabin walls, Anders made his unsteady way to the deck.

The night breeze was cool and sweet, scented with the river and hints of the desert to the north. Anders blinked and gazed about, taking in the unfamiliar and arcane structures of the river boat. Silver moonlight and yellow lantern light took turns illuminating the painted wood, the tall masts, and the web of ropes that seemed to tie it all together. Voices carried on the air, the musical conversations of the Antivan sailors. Someone sang faintly at the rear of the ship.

Anders didn't need to wonder where Fenris could be found. When they crossed the Waking Sea, the elf had lurked at the prow, watching the waves.

_Unless he's drinking somewhere with Zevran._ Anders felt a pang of envy. Even in his dazed state, he recognized the close relationship between the two. Whether the friendship was more than platonic or not, Anders did not know. He could only hope that it wasn't. _Not that you have a claim on the man._ That thought was accompanied by a sharper ache. Regret. Grief. Anger at himself for destroying something beautiful in his blindness.

The mage shook himself and continued on, stepping carefully across the deck.

To his surprise, he did find the elf. It took a moment of careful searching in the shadows thrown by a nearby lantern, but he finally picked out the white glow of Fenris' hair, the glimmer of the lyrium written into the elf's bare arms. Fenris sat in the lee of a crate, his legs thrust through the railing, his chin resting on his folded arms. From his angle, Anders couldn't see the elf's face, but his posture seemed relaxed.

Anders lingered nearby, waiting to be acknowledged.

Fenris remained silent and motionless. Only his hair moved, ruffling in the breeze and picking up bits of starlight. Anders suddenly noticed a tiny speck of gold on one long ear. _An earring? Since when? What happened while we were apart?_

Only one of the many things Anders wanted to talk about. More than that, Anders just wanted to be near the other man. Wanted the intimacy that they had so briefly shared.

_But he doesn't want me here_, Anders realized morosely. _And I can't blame him._

_But how do I change that if I don't talk to him?_

The mage rested against a large coil of rope, dithering. _He did save me. He brought me with him. Is it only because he needs my help? Or is there another reason? He... _Here, the memories became fuzzy. There was a lot of cold, wet darkness. Then the fever took hold. Anders could take nothing for granted, as much as he wished the elf's desperate embrace had been real and not imagined. _He was by my side when I woke. He was there. But now... Now he won't even look at me._

With a physical effort, Anders firmed his resolve. _I have to talk to him. I have to tell him everything. How wrong I was. How blind. How stupid. _He drew in a breath to speak.

"Go away, abomination," Fenris said before Anders could begin. He didn't turn his head to look back and his voice sounded calm, weary. He moved, at least, reaching down beside him to retrieve a bottle from the shadows by his hip.

Anders stuttered over what he was about to say. "I—Fenris, I just need to say-"

"I do not wish to hear it."

"I was _wrong_," the mage cried. It wasn't what he had planned to say, but it was the first thing to leap off of his tongue.

"I know!" the elf snapped, his voice cracking. He finally flashed a glare over his shoulder. "Because of you, all of Thedas is suffering. The Warden is dead. And I-" He stopped abruptly and drank again.

"I'm sorry." Anders sank down, his knees suddenly too weak to hold him. "I'm so sorry, Fenris. I was blind and arrogant. All I wanted was to have Hawke back and safe!"

"We could have done it together," the elf growled. "I wanted him back, too, and you did not trust me." He turned back to the water. His next words came faintly, in a sigh. "You were not alone."

Anders hadn't meant to start weeping. As soon as he felt his throat close and his eyes burn, he panicked. _He'll think you're doing it on purpose_, he thought frantically. He clapped a hand over his mouth to cover a ragged inhale and scrambled up to his feet. Without another word, he turned and dashed back to Isabela's cabin.

/.\./.\

He'd retreated to the prow, hoping to find some clarity and solace in the waves. Then he had heard the clumsy step. The uneven human breath. The rustle of robes.

_He sought me out._ A storm of fury and pleasure fought in his belly. _Why? Why is he here? _

_No. I don't want to know. He has to stay far away from me. I do not want him. _The back of his neck had lifted, knowing that Anders fidgeted behind him, but he didn't want to look. _I do not want to forgive him._

Struggling with his own weakness, Fenris threw accusations at the abomination before Anders even had a chance to speak. _Get away, get away_, he wanted to howl. _Get away before I lose myself again!_

Fenris' heart clenched when he heard Anders' sob as he fled. Dealing with the shaking, feverish lump of crying Anders had been bad enough. He found dealing with the conscious mage so much more difficult.

Since he and the mage had saved each other, Fenris' conflicting feelings battled and gnawed at him whenever Anders moved, made a noise, or just breathed loudly. When in the other man's presence, the elf struggled not to drop everything and either break the abomination's jaw or claim Anders as his own.

The mage was a distraction. The painful meal over Isabela's map earlier convinced him of that. Zevran and Isabela tried to hold a conversation around him, but he devoted most of his attention to keeping his eyes to himself. He wanted to glower at Anders, dare the mage to betray him again, just so Fenris could have an excuse to tear out his heart. _Useless. Dangerous. Stupid. _

_He came back to you, though,_ offered a part of his mind that apparently spent most of its time plucking daisies and having long talks with Merrill. _He helped you. He wants you. He is yours._

_I will never trust him again. _

_He probably saved your life. If not for him, Hawke would have taken you back._

_It was a fluke._

When Anders suddenly stumbled forward out of his chair, startling Fenris out of his thoughts, the elf flinched away and glared at the man.

Isabela's lantern light glowed on Anders' blond hair as he leaned over the pirate's map. His lean cheeks, flushed from illness, held a false vitality. His glossy lips curved in an excited smile. He directed that smile toward Fenris.

"I have a trap for him," he declared. In his voice rang familiar cockiness.

Fenris had felt a moment's relief, that someone else knew what to do, and it increased his annoyance. He would not dumbly follow anyone, much less a proven traitor.

When Anders had asked asked if he trusted him, Fenris nearly came unglued. He nearly snarled, "_I did that once and you sold me back to Danarius," _but had refrained. Mostly because he thought he might not stop there and destroy what chance they had to pick Anders' brain. Also because he thought Zevran might take Fenris' rage as an opportunity to slit Anders' throat. So he let his glare say it for him.

Fenris' satisfaction vanished when he saw Anders' arrogance replaced by the lost, desperate sadness that he had seen in the mage's few conscious moments during his fever.

He had looked away, unable to handle the mage's wounded expression and angry at himself for that weakness. _Never again._

_It is a good plan, _Fenris brooded now, staring out at the night river._ And simple. It just might work. Good for Anders, too. Forces us to keep him around. _

The thought gave him pause.

_I would find other excuses to keep him_, he admitted to himself, very quietly. _Besides, if I wanted him gone, I doubt he would truly resist. _

He dug his fingers into his own skull and pressed his brow against the damp wooden railing. _No. No. You are weak and afraid. As weak as he is. You cannot give into this._ He tried to cling to his anger.

The words Anders had gasped as he fled echoed in Fenris' head.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Fenris nearly said too much, then, of the pain of betrayal, so terrible because he still wanted-

_You aren't as sorry as I am_, he thought at the mage's retreating footsteps.


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Notes:**  
In which there are Antivans, splinters, maps, spiders and magic.

This one stabbed me in the heart a lot. And Anders makes me think of Frankenfurter: "It's not easy having a good time. Even smiling makes my face ache."

I honestly have no idea what Isabela is up to. But it's fiendish and sexy, no fooling. I can't wait for her to get around to telling me.

Apologies for the sandstorm spell. I got a little carried away. My fetish for fight scenes has met its match with creative spell casting. Muahah.

So many groveling thank yous to my beta, Paula, who keeps me from making a fool of myself. At least when it comes to writing.

**Warnings**: Angst, angst, angst, angst...and Spanish!

**Playlist Recommendation:  
**Katy Perry - I Kissed a Girl (mentally revised to "I Kissed a Mage")

I kissed a mage and I liked it  
The taste of his lyrium potion  
I kissed a mage just to try it  
I hope my Champion don't mind it  
It felt so wrong  
It felt so right  
Don't mean I'm in love tonight  
I kissed a mage and I liked it  
I liked it

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty-three**

"I'm putting you with the crew," Isabela told him the next morning, when Anders emerged from her bunk. "They'll treat you right enough, so long as you keep your magic to yourself. You could even make yourself useful. We've got at least a week more of hard, upriver sailing."

Anders nodded. In his current mood, she could tell him to swim the rest of the way and he would agree, if only to distract himself from the misery of his own existence.

Following breakfast, Anders moved his meagre belongings to an unoccupied bunk in a narrow corridor walled with identical niches and found someone to tell him what to do. The sailor, an old Antivan woman with skin like tanned hide, explained the intricacies of swabbing the deck in broken common and then set him loose with a sponge and a bucket.

The mage toiled under a clear, painfully bright sky, throwing himself into the work. With every scrub, he tried to clean away the knowledge of his own terrible deeds. When he plunged his brush into the bucket, he struck vindictively at his own reflection. When his shoulders ached and knees stung, he thought with longing of the oblivion he would find in the night, when exhaustion would drag him away from thoughts of Fenris...and Zevran.

_I'm not blind_, he gritted mentally. He could see, easily enough, the tension between the two elves when they sparred on the stern deck. It shone brighter than the sun, forcing his head down and his gaze to remain on the _Island Queen_'s glowing gold boards.

By the time they served the midday meal, he had replaced his shirt with sweat and soapy water. He sported enough splinters in his fingers and feet to build a new galleon. His shoulders and back burned red from the sun, while his chest and belly remained a milky white.

"_Bueno_," said his new taskmistress, gesturing for him to join her and some of the crew in a shady part of the deck. "Your work is good, _vientre de pescado_."

The group laughed around him.

Anders would have frowned, but they shoved a flask and a meally biscuit at him, removing any insult. "Vientre de pescado?" he repeated around a mouthful.

A young man made a wide circle in the air over his own nut brown chest and stomach. "Belly of a fish," he explained, grinning widely.

The mage glanced down at himself and snorted softly. "Fish belly," he grumbled. "Right."

He worked with his young translator in the afternoon, twisting and coiling ropes and trimming off snarls of hemp. The Antivan sang as he worked, a bawdy song if the shouts from the rest of the crew were any indication, and Anders plucked up the courage to join in. The time passed quickly. Before he knew it, the sun sank toward the horizon in the west, turning the river into beaten copper, and the mage's hands were as stiff and painful as his back and shoulders.

The work and the camaraderie, though, soothed his heart and spirit. He could do good here, safe in the knowledge that someone, even just sailors, benefitted from his work. They drew him into their group with no question, no reservation. For the first time since waking in Nevarra City, Anders allowed the strangling ropes of guilt around his heart to relax. He would not forget, would never forget, but he would give himself a chance to heal.

When he spotted Isabela, Zevran and Fenris retreat into the captain's cabin for their evening meal, Anders pulled his gaze away. He smiled shyly at his new Antivan friends. He could be Fish Belly, at least for a time.

At night he continued to dream, tossing about on his hard bunk, but he was too exhausted not to sleep.

/.\./.\

Watching Anders recover, as gay and lighthearted as a Blighted meadowlark, singing and laughing with Isabela's Antivans, was far, far worse than anything Fenris had suffered so far.

Anders had a _smile_ on his face whenever Fenris happened to catch a glimpse of him, whether he scrambled in a nest of ropes or worked on this bit of wood or another. He had easy, comfortable conversations with the crew. He acted like none of the past year had happened. Like _they_ had never happened. The journey they had been on, the misguided affection...the betrayal.

_Where is his remorse now?_ Fenris thought darkly, squinting up at the mage climbing around on the nets draping off the rear mast. The man looked ridiculous, rail thin and pale skinned, like a red and white spider. _Never trust a mage_, he reminded himself. _Especially an abomination._

"_Pescado_!" called one of the sailors, a darkly tanned youth. He hung in the ropes closer to the sails. He gestured sharply at Anders. "_Asi_! _Asi_!"

Anders pointed toward a piece of sail. "Here?" When the Antivan shook his curly black head, Anders pointed elsewhere. "Here?"

Some of the other sailors joined in, calling their own directions and laughing at Anders' confusion. Any normal man would have lost his temper, any normal mage would have set the lot of them on fire, but Anders played along.

_He's a caricature. An ape._

In bright, clear flashes, Fenris remembered moments in their journey together when this ridiculous behaviour had drawn him in. He had smirked, laughed and fallen for the mage's ploys. Anders' playfulness could have been just another spell in an arsenal of manipulation.

_I should have known. I was such a fool._

When Anders finally succeeded in his arcane task amongst the ropes, the nearby crew laughed and applauded him. He executed a tiny, awkward bow, managed to knock himself loose and would have fallen, if not for the timely intervention of the Antivan youth. They clasped hands, long enough for Anders to regain his grip on the thick hemp, and then a moment longer. Anders smiled brilliantly, flushed and breathless.

Fenris scowled and turned away, his stomach roiling like a serpent.

While Anders frolicked with the sailors, Fenris cloistered himself with Zevran and Isabela. They sparred on deck during the day and played games in the evenings. Fenris brooded on Isabela's maps and tried not to notice Anders joining in with the Antivans' impromptu choirs. No matter where the elf hid, though, the mage's off-key baritone found him.

"What did he do?" Isabela asked one night, when Fenris stormed to the cabin window and slammed the shutters closed against a particularly irritating chorus. She looked on him curiously, her amber gaze glowing like embers over her glass of clear wine.

"Zevran didn't tell you?" Fenris dropped back into his seat. He snatched his cards up, eyed the two rogues suspiciously, and played one of them.

"It was not my tale to tell," Zevran said. "Well, except for the part when the dashing, heroic and sexy assassin rescued you from the clutches of evil." He leered. "I enjoy telling that part."

"You were there to assassinate me," Fenris countered flatly.

The blond elf shrugged. "So many romantic stories do begin this way, yes."

Before Zevran could embellish, Fenris began an abbreviated version of 'What Anders Did.'

"Danarius kidnapped Hawke, Anders and I went after him, and the abomination traded me for Hawke." He waved a hand in the air. By this point, he felt like he told a story about someone else. "Of course, Danarius did something to Hawke already. Anders the Fool unleashed some kind of ultimate evil on Thedas, like a tiger on a lamb." He tossed another card and blindly drained his own glass. The wine went down like fizzy honey. "Danarius used a new type of magic to bind me to Hawke's will. Anders enslaved himself—" Here, Fenris spat the words. He had been born a slave, but Anders had done it to himself. "And that is when the rest of the world took notice."

"Yes, we all heard of the Viscount and his loyal hounds." Isabela tilted her head. "I had wondered. You never struck me as the sharing kind."

"Well."

"You and Anders were close when he betrayed, weren't you?" the pirate asked quietly. A rare, sombre expression stilled her dusky features. "I know what it's like, to be sold out by someone you trust. To be used. I am sorry, Fenris."

Fenris didn't bother to refill his glass. He stole the bottle off the table. "I do not want your pity," he rumbled.

She smiled slightly. "No, I don't pity you. I do wonder, though, why you bothered to rescue him."

After a long drink, Fenris admitted, "He rescued us, actually. The bastard."

"We would have been fine," Zevran interjected sharply. "We nearly had the Viscount before you threw us into the river."

Isabela chuckled. "So you spared his life. How tediously fair. Well then, do you think you'll ever forgive him?" Her bright bandana nodded toward the shutters, where thin strains of an Antivan violin crept in. "He'll probably keep making a fool of himself until you do. I don't think I've ever seen a more desperate man."

"Desperate?" Fenris repeated incredulously. He snorted. "Hardly. He is like a child. He saw something shiny and it took all his tears away."

The pirate hummed noncommittally.

"What?" Fenris snapped. He glared from her, to Zevran, and back again. "He's not desperate. He's an idiot!"

"Agreed," Zevran immediately spoke up. "We should work out the details of his inevitable demise. Dragged behind the boat? Hung from the mizzen? Once his spell is cast, we can be rid of him."

"No!" Fenris threw his cards down and jumped back to his feet. He was tense enough to vibrate, his heart and breath coming too quickly. "I don't want him dead." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, startling in their vehemence. He clenched his jaw to stem the flow of more, unbidden proclamations. _I should_, he seethed. _He deserves nothing less._

"Then what do you want?" Isabela asked slyly.

_I hate being asked that._ Fenris palmed his brow. "To be free," he muttered, without looking at his companions. "To finish this. Hawke is out there somewhere and I'm going to stop him."

"And after that?" Zevran asked. He set his cards aside and leaned over the table, his stare intent on his fellow elf. "I have some ideas for your consideration..."

"I don't know!" The Tevinter glowered. He drew away from them, angered more by his inability to answer than by the questions themselves. What did they expect from him? For most of his life, his will had been dominated by another's.

"Easy," Isabela said, low and smooth. "You don't need to know. I usually don't know, either, one day to the next." She leaned back and stretched. Her movements drew Fenris' gaze. "Male or female, human or other, brunet, blond-" She quirked a finely sculpted eyebrow. "White-haired."

Fenris snorted and glanced away, his anger dissipating.

Zevran chortled. "This could be a beautiful thing," he said. Then, smirking, he amended, "So long as I am a part of it."

Isabela made a fist. "I've always been very interested in seeing more of what you can do, Fenris."

The two rogues grinned at him.

Something shrieked on the other side of the shutters. It sounded like an animal in terrible pain.

"_Pescado_!" someone shouted. "You're killing her strings!"

"No, no, let me keep trying," Anders cried, slightly muffled. "I'm very musical!"

And there was Anders, as fresh in memory as anything Fenris had ever experienced. Smiling, loving, teasing, weeping, frustrating, challenging, infuriating. A bowed head and a yielding body. _"I am yours."_

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the images out of his mind. Lies, they had all been lies. Fenris had been a means to an end, an end where Fenris was back in chains and Anders could stand at Hawke's side.

_But he came back. He left Hawke for me. He broke free._

_No, he only escaped the thing Hawke had become. Not for me. For himself._

_And he stayed to fight when he could have run. He saved our lives...mine and Zevran both._

Isabela and Zevran continued to watch him expectantly when Fenris looked up. Their invitation hung between them, tempting. He could sink into them as well as he could crawl into a bottle. There was no desire within him, though, no stirring of his flesh. It would be a bleak and empty coupling.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely to their expectant faces. "But no." He took his wine and padded away.

After some searching, Fenris found a muffled corner of the hold, where the singing almost did not reach.

/.\./.\

Anders distracted himself from thoughts of Fenris, the past and the future with some success for most of their journey on the _Island Queen_. He threw himself into the menial labour, relishing the straining of his muscles and knowing that he grew stronger. As his body recovered, his mind seemed to clear, shaking off the clinging tendrils of loss and depression. He sang with the Antivans, learned some of their language, listened to their stories, and momentarily forgot that he was an apostate mage, an abomination, and perhaps one of the most villainous men to stalk across Thedas.

Then Isabela called him into her cabin.

He came, wiping flax oil from his calloused hands with a dirty rag. When he entered, the trio were as he had seen them last, Fenris glowering at a spot on the wall across the room, Zevran eyeing Anders like he might look at an especially disgusting insect, and Isabela smirking cheerfully over her desk of maps. Anders levelled a steady gaze on the pirate, though he wanted so desperately to stare at Fenris. He had only seen glimpses of the elf since their ill-fated conversation, and being near to something he desired so badly was an agony.

"You missed your calling, Anders," Isabela commented. "You make a fine sailor." Her amber eyes moved up and down his body and her smirk grew into a lecherous smile.

The mage laughed and looked down at himself. A kind Antivan had loaned him a bandana of his own, he still hadn't managed to shave since leaving Nevarra City, and he had bought a pair of loose, baggy pants to wear in place of his own tight trousers. His skin had gone from white, to red, to the golden tan he had worn as a child in the mountains.

"Just a sailor?" He grinned playfully at the busty Rivaini and growled, "Y'arr, I be a pirate!"

Isabela cackled, shaking her head. "No. You couldn't pull it off."

Anders leaned back and pouted. "Aw." He scratched at his infant beard. "I could be the Dread Pirate Anders. With my crew of Ferocious Felines. Scourge of yarn merchants and tuna boats."

"Enough!"

Anders startled and blinked at the outburst. Fenris stood, fists clenched, his tattoos unnervingly bright.

"Is this a game to you, abomination?" he demanded. "Playing sailor and pirate?"

Anders recoiled, lips pressing together to keep his sharp retort to himself. _At least I'm doing something useful._ "It's not a game," he said instead, trying to keep his tone light and even, placating. "I'm only trying to help-"

"We know what happens when you help!" Fenris snarled. "You only help yourself, you deceptive, traitorous, disloyal bastard!"

Again, Anders held himself back from responding. The attacks hurt, but only because they were in many ways true. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, lowering his head. "Tell me what you want, Fenris. I'll do it."

With his gaze on the floor, Anders expected a blow or a kick to come at any moment. Instead, Fenris just released a hiss of air and dropped back onto his chair.

"You will lose your chance, my brother," Zevran interjected. "You can make him do all sorts of interesting things. There are two dozen Antivan sailors to help."

Anders winced.

"Maybe later," Fenris sighed.

"Tomorrow we reach the edge of the Plains," Isabela began. "We'll land in the morning. The terrain is rocky, so we'll be climbing." She winked. "Get some rest, dread pirate. I'm giving you the evening off."

"Oh." Anders rubbed his thighs reflexively, feeling like he'd just lost something he'd been holding on to. _Now what do I do?_

Isabela must have seen something of his loss in his expression. She gestured at his face. "We'll use the time to give you a proper shave and a bath, hm? If I was the primal forces of nature, I'd like you looking pretty when you asked me a favour."

"Yes," he agreed immediately, relieved. So long as he wasn't left to the ghosts.

/.\./.\

For the first time on their journey, Isabela and Anders were alone together. The pirate had him sit in a chair. Then, humming a jaunty tune, she sharpened her razor, smeared lather over his face, and straddled his lap.

The mage lifted an eyebrow, but couldn't say much when Isabela's gentle touch was forcing his head back.

"Don't fidget," she chided him. "This blade was made for dwarven beards."

He swallowed with difficulty.

"I'm quite sure that's where steel wool comes from, actually," she added thoughtfully.

Something cold swept up from the base of his throat to his jaw. Isabela leaned forward, the soft weight of her breasts pressing against Anders' naked chest, and dipped her razor into a porcelain basin of water on her desk. She smirked down at him before pulling away.

"I used to do this for my husband. And every time, I thought, 'Who would know it wasn't an accident?'"

There was another cold caress. Another embrace of the pirate's bosom. Another dip.

"I was too proud, though. Shaving a man is an art. I would sooner admit to murder than admit to incompetence. Turn this way, love."

She shifted on his lap, her bare thighs sliding smoothly against his loose trousers. He started to get very warm.

"There's something erotic about it. Something intimate." She leaned especially close and lowered her own head, placing her lips close to his ear. Her hair lapped in cool waves against his chest and shoulder. He shuddered when she spoke. "It's hard to get any closer to death than the width of a razor."

Dip.

Anders closed his eyes, licked his lips and tasted soap. His body began reacting to her, completely of its own volition, throbbing along with his heart. He didn't want it to. His heart lay with Fenris, for good or ill, and his body would follow. He would not lose what fragile hope remained to him!

Her weight shifted forward.

He grabbed her wrists, eyes snapping open. There was a shock of pain just under his ear, but he ignored it. "Stop," he uttered hoarsely, staring intently into her shocked amber gaze. "Please. Isabela. I...I'll shave myself."

She didn't reply for a moment. He thought she might react angrily. Instead, the corner of her full lips curled upward and she slid backward, out of his grasp and off of his knees.

"Of course," she said. She set the razor aside and gestured at the assortment of toiletries set up in her small cabin. "Take your time." Then she pressed a white cloth to his jaw. "You're bleeding."

He held it there, waiting for his heart to slow and his body to settle, before he tried to scrape the hair from his own cheeks. The entire time, he wondered, _What just happened?_

/.\./.\

In the misty morning, the _Island Queen _weighed anchor in the centre of the Minanter, now a narrow, fast flowing river still fresh from the Hunterhorn foothills, and the travellers took a small rowboat to the eastern shore. Two Antivan sailors manned the oars and Anders tried to engage them in conversation. However, freshly shaven and bathed, in his robes with his staff on his back, he must have cut a different figure than the Fish Belly they'd become familiar with. They refused to speak more than a few words to him.

Anders was left to his own thoughts, then. He did his best to concentrate on the approaching scenery and avoid his companions. Bad enough that Fenris was still seething and Zevran was still insulted by Anders' very existence, but Isabela had adopted a sly, speculative look whenever she glanced his way. He found it rather disconcerting and couldn't, for the life of him, fathom what storms were brewing in her lovely head.

Herds of overgrown rocks and boulders dominated the landscape, interrupted by deep crevasses and small, gnarled trees. They arrowed toward the western edge of the Silent Plains, where the land began its steep descent into the dry dust bowl. Here, the winds were just small, infant things, still playful from their birth in the mountains, carrying just enough moisture to keep them friendly. As they surged along in the boat, Anders closed his eyes and concentrated on the air around him. Tasting. Testing. Sending out little feelers of magic to determine where the easy channels were and what he would need to change.

Fenris grunted and scratched under his breastplate. Attracted by the noise, Anders opened his eyes and looked over, but quickly closed them again when he met the elf's glare.

_Now what did I do?_

"I need a good vantage point," the mage said when they reached the rocky shore. He splashed down into the shallows and marvelled at the feel of solid ground. He had nearly forgotten what it felt like.

"There are some peaks over there," Fenris said, pointing toward the northeast. He, too, seemed pleased to be on land again, and Anders thought he detected a wiggle in the elf's dark little toes.

Anders followed Fenris' pointing claw and saw nothing but a blue haze hanging over the broken hills. He nodded, though, trusting the Tevinter's superior vision, and started in that direction. As he trudged up the first incline, old reflexes took over. Without thinking, he cast a series of buffs on himself and the rogues and warrior who followed him. _Fight well_, he thought as the power flowed through old pathways. _I'll keep you safe._

They travelled along narrow paths, winding around pillars of rock and over humps of earth. More than once, Anders spotted an herb that would have been perfect for a potion. His excitement would quickly die, though. There were no herbalists to direct to the spot. Hawke wasn't there to lean over the shopkeepers' counters and point conspiratorially to this random spot or another. "What kind of discount would you give the man who can tell you where the lyrium is?" he would ask. "I'll tell you about an Elfroot plant, too, if you keep the potions reasonable."

_Ah, Hawke_, Anders ruminated darkly. _What will happen to you?_ He had been concentrating his thoughts and energies on merely surviving his own despair; he hadn't tried to anticipate the fate of his beloved Champion.

If his Champion still lived... In the few memories he could dredge up past the Fade and his own enchantment, Anders felt only coldness where Hawke's vibrant life had once burned. The man continued to breathe, to speak, and to walk, but he was diminished. He acted in hunger and violence, as though his human spirit had long since fled.

_And I traded Fenris for such a creature._ He winced at the reminder and stubbed his toe in his distraction. It hurt, even through his thick boot. _Don't think about it_, he told himself as he limped along. _There's no guarantee you'll survive the night, anyway. Your regret is only a distraction._

They broke for lunch when the sun rode high and bore down from a cloudless sky, and took shelter in a cave mouth. Unsurprisingly, they found a small trove of treasure guarded by a dozen giant spiders and a weak revenant. The travellers dispatched them swiftly and quietly.

"My Warden was a better yeoman," Zevran commented, holding up a quiver of enchanted arrows. "But I will take them."

Anders quelled the urge to apologize. The words came so automatically at any mention of his old friend that they were beginning to lose their meaning. He lowered his head and stared at his cold meal.

"You use a bow as well?" Fenris asked. He chuckled, then, and Anders fought a surge of jealousy. "Where did you hide that?"

"We all carried distance weapons." The assassin's armour jingled faintly as he moved. "A longbow is easy, my friend. You should have seen where Alistair kept his crossbow."

Anders stood and hit the back of his head on the cave wall. Rubbing the sharp ache, he staggered toward the entrance. He would rather shrivel under the sun than hear Zevran woo Fenris.

"Where are you going?" Fenris demanded.

"Away," Anders replied hoarsely. "I don't like the, the webs." He waved vaguely toward the spider nests. This wasn't a complete lie, at least; any moment he expected a wave of eight-legged beasts to emerge and crawl into his robes.

The Tevinter frowned and followed.

While Isabela and Zevran finished, Anders sat on a rock, sweating under the sun and Fenris' watchful glare. Briefly, he tried to think of something to say to Fenris in this rare moment of privacy, some way to express his regret and desire to do better, but the words wouldn't come to him. Soon enough, his chance slipped away, as Isabela and Zevran emerged and the party continued their arduous trek.

Night had nearly fallen when they reached the tall, weather-worn peaks Fenris had spotted from the river.

"I think this one is the tallest," Anders decided wearily, looking up the thin game trail that curved away into the darkness. "I'll do it up there."

"How long will it take?" Isabela asked.

Anders frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know."

"It took you one word last time," Fenris grumbled. The elf appeared as little more than moonlight and shadow in the shape of a man.

"That was different. I didn't call it, I heard it. I learned it." Neither word was quite accurate. Anders waved an annoyed hand; people like Finn excelled at explaining magic to non-mages. Anders did not. "This is going to take a while. It's like weaving. Or singing. You have to take the bits in the right order, tie them together, and send them in the right direction with enough power to keep going. It's complicated."

The others looked distinctly unimpressed.

"I'll go alone," Anders offered. "There probably aren't anymore spiders around. Probably." He peered at the peak nervously, wondering how many octuplets of eyes peered back at him.

"No." Fenris strode forward. "The last time I let you go off alone, you set the end of the world in motion. I shudder to think of what you could do next."

"H-hey!" Anders hurried after the elf. "That's—Well, true, I suppose, but, you don't have to worry. I'm going to do exactly what I said I'm going to do. No more and no less." _Never again_, he repeated internally. _If he ever trusts me again, I will never betray him._

Fenris didn't reply.

Anders cast an aura spell on himself and used the faint illumination to keep from tripping over anything. He pushed himself to keep up with Fenris' silent figure, barely discernible against rock and scrub, and only stopped when he noticed that no one followed him. "The others," he panted. "They're not coming."

The Tevinter finally paused. He returned, brushing past Anders to peer down the steep drop off behind them. Anders caught a hint of the elf's scent—leather, sweat, metal, wine and spice. It startled him. He became momentarily lost in a tumult of longing for those distant nights of travel when Fenris' arms had gone around him. That complex scent had once engulfed Anders, a heady mix of violence and affection, excitement and safety.

"They're sitting," Fenris rumbled, snapping Anders out of his reverie. "They have a fire."

_We're alone together_, Anders realized, his heart jumping into his throat. _Another chance! Come on, Anders, don't mess this up again._ He swallowed his fear and excitement, the residue of his memories, and tentatively said, "I suppose they think they can keep watch from down there? And, well, it is a small peak. I suppose there isn't much room for more than one."

In Anders' pale green light, Fenris' eyes burned like emerald fire and his lyrium turned toxic. The elf glared at him.

"What?" the mage asked, leaning away nervously. "Why are you angry with me? I told you that you could stay."

"Keep moving," Fenris ordered.

Anders lifted his hands and bowed his head. "As you wish."

Much slower that the elf, Anders found his way to the top, often on all fours. Behind him, Fenris climbed silently, his bare feet gripping the rock like a Blighted mountain sheep. Anders felt overly aware of him, like a heat source warming his back and neck. It probably slowed him further, as he tripped and distractedly grabbed at shadows more than once.

The peak was little more than bare rock, two boulders and a few tufts of grass. Anders settled into the small, sheltered crevice between the boulders, straightened his robes, and lay his staff across his knees.

Before him, a long vista rolled away into the darkness. Under the stars and moon, the sandy landscape was pale and ghostly, like Anders looked out on a world of spirits.

A faint scuff on one of the boulders announced Fenris' presence. Without turning, Anders asked, "Remind you of anything?"

"A mistake I once made."

_Ouch_. Anders' humour darkened. He couldn't even think of a response that didn't involve leaping to his death.

Instead, Anders closed his eyes and concentrated on a deep and rhythmic breath. With every inhale, he drew in the sky and the land, the flavour of the wind, and the power that lay beneath. With every exhale, he released the hurt, confusion and yearning. _I am a vessel_, he thought. _Nothing more and nothing less. I am a vessel, and I will carry the magic thusly._

/.\./.\

Fenris dozed where he perched above Anders, Bloom resting on his shoulder, until he was prodded awake by singing and a persistent, all-over itch.

His eyes opened. Dawn stained violet around the edges of the night and the stars had faded. A breeze played in his hair, pushing it first one way and then another. The song, more of a wordless sigh, really, came from...from many places.

Deep voices moaned high above, where the stars still faintly twinkled. Thin, eerie tunes played from the surrounding rock. Below him, a soft baritone tied them together.

_Not quite an Antivan sailing song_, he thought bitterly. _At least he doesn't sound like a tortured cow anymore._

The bitterness didn't last long, though, not when the tapestry of winds flowed past his ears. Anders' song sounded sad, full of such black remorse that Fenris wouldn't have believed it came from the man if he hadn't looked down and seen the mage, eyes closed and mouth open, still glowing with faint green light.

The elf shuddered and scratched his ribs, where the prickle of magic itched the worst.

_Nearly dawn. He will finish soon_, Fenris assured himself, squirming uncomfortably and digging his gauntleted fingers into his thigh.

He was wrong.

The voices of the wind grew louder and the magic stronger. Anders' tone changed several times, as though he spoke to different spirits, travelling a range from despair, to anger, to joy, and finally hysteria. By the time the sun spilled yolk-like over the horizon, Fenris shuddered from being so close to the magic. He felt like a string, plucked too many times, vibrating with energy.

The wind picked up until it howled through gaps in the sun-topped peaks around them. It whirled around like a beast in a cage, picking up dust and debris, to the point where Fenris couldn't see the yellow plains anymore. The immediate area around him, though, had calmed. It was breathless, waiting. Not even his smallest hair moved.

Anders stood, supported on his staff. His voice rose with him. There were no words, nothing but a primal command, something immense and unstoppable and pure. The aura of light intensified.

Fenris' skin tried to crawl away. He tried to breathe, but it came out as a gasp, nearly a sob, from the intensity of the sensation, so beyond pain or pleasure that he couldn't classify it. His mind started to shut down. He stared into the light, suspended between the desire to flee and the need to get closer.

The song rose to an unbelievable height, bridging the gap between the senses until Fenris could see and feel it, could taste its complex weave. He cried out.

It stopped. There was a moment of perfect, silent purity.

Fenris couldn't breathe. He stared down, in numb shock, and met Anders' wide, pupil-less eyes. The mage stood, arms outstretched and head thrown back. The dust hung around them in a curtain, shimmering under the full sun.

Then it broke.

Something like a High Dragon hit Fenris in the back and nearly knocked him off his perch. He slid forward, his grasping fingers sparking against the rock, and tumbled off the edge. For a heart-stopping moment, he saw the yawning depth of a crevasse, then he twisted toward the peak and landed on something soft and unappreciative.

"Augh!" Anders shouted hoarsely, barely audible and immediately torn away by the shrieking winds.

Fenris hurriedly tried to scramble off the mage, managed to dig an elbow into Anders' thigh and change the pitch of his screams, and finally wedged himself between the boulders. He brought Anders with him, catching a generous handful of robe in one hand before the wind could steal his away.

Dust whipped past, blinding him. Cursing internally, Fenris hauled Anders closer and protected his face in the lee of their bodies. Anders, once he ceased his indignant struggles, did the same.

The wind died as suddenly as it had begun. Fenris realized, with some dismay, that he huddled together with the mage. Again.

His body didn't seem to understand that this was a bad thing. Wherever Anders' weight pressed down against the elf, Fenris' skin felt warm and soothed, faintly humming its contentment. Everywhere else wanted that same pressure.

_Can a foot be jealous of a thigh?_ he wondered deliriously. _Apparently yes._ He was overly aware of his own chest and belly, protected under a breastplate, but close enough to tingle. The spirit hide sheathing his legs did nothing against the comfortable heat. Something of Anders sank into him and he liked it. He pushed back, sliding his legs against the mage's boots, toeing at the fabric of his trousers, a laugh tickling deep in his chest at the sensation of the magic against his feet.

"S-sorry," Anders husked. His head hung over Fenris', blond hair and breath stroking the elf's brow. He looked dazed, eyes like pools of honey where they caught the rising sun. He licked his lips.

Fenris squirmed. Every strand, every fibre hummed its need for this. _Take him_, his body called. _Now!_

Then Anders pushed away, braced against the rock around them. He shook the debris out of his hair and kept his face averted.

Fenris watched the man retreat toward the edge of the peak. Then he let his head drop back and glared at the strip of sky between the rock. Everything felt tight and throbbed, worse now that Anders' weight had gone. He shivered from the sudden cold.

_Blighted magic._ He forced himself to move, to rise into a crouch.

"Maker," Anders muttered.

Fenris stood on shaky legs and carefully approached the other man, where he leaned against a boulder and looked out.

"I think it worked," the mage continued quietly.

Fenris swept the formerly quiet landscape with a steady gaze. He shivered again, though not from the chill. "Yes," he replied, nearly choking on the word.

Sometimes he forgot. In his disdain for Anders, when he wasn't desperate to tear the man's clothing off, he forgot that the mage was a conduit to powers that Fenris had trouble merely comprehending. This sight offered a startling reminder.

The sky before them had turned a sickly yellow. Below them, across the flat descent to the Silent Plains, a storm built and marched. Black clouds gathered, flashing with crimson lightning. Columns of dust and sand gouted miles high, like a grotesque city roiling eastward. Although there was no wind where they stood, Fenris could see trees and bushes within a stone's throw lashing wildly and tearing away from their rocky beds. He heard a muted roar, something immense and distant.

"Nothing will survive that," Anders added. He lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes. "Maker, why?" He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, and abruptly turned on Fenris. "I never asked for this power," he blurted, grasping at his own coat. "Did I ever tell you that? You think that mages are obsessed with power, hungry for it, but really, we're just people. But when we make mistakes, they're so much _bigger_-"

"Anders," Fenris interrupted the frantic babbling. He parted his lips to add more, perhaps reassurance or a word of forgiveness. His voice died, though, as past and present clashed. He frowned up at Anders' distressed expression. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You did what you must."

Anders sagged. "Yes," he said. "I did." He faced the growing storm and smirked bitterly. "And you were here with me, so I know it wasn't a bad choice." He glanced toward Fenris and away. "Like my decisions usually are."

Fenris wasn't sure what to say to that. He folded his arms tightly, holding onto his resentment and anger. _There will be no forgiveness._

"Thank you," Anders continued. "For being here. I...I need to do what's right, but I don't think-"

"That is entirely accurate," Fenris interjected when the mage paused.

Anders snorted. "I'm trying to say something, elf. You don't need to be an ass about it."

"If this is an apology, that is not a good way to start."

"I've already apologized so much," Anders sighed. "How much more can I say it? The words have no meaning anymore. I just, I need to show it. I guess. But I need you to know what it means to me, having you here. I need you. I need you to tell me if what I'm doing is right."

"You think I know any better than you?" Fenris leaned away, eyebrows lifting in surprise and the sudden warmth of pleasure.

"Hawke trusted you. Before." Anders shrugged and scratched more dust out of his hair. "I should have done the same. I mean...I don't agree with everything you say, but you see things so clearly." He blinked sadly at Fenris. "To me, everything is confused. And that's dangerous. I know that now... Together, Justice and I destroyed so much, because I thought it was right."

Fenris rocked back on his heels and scrambled for some kind of retort. Nothing came to him. He stared blankly.

"Sorry," Anders murmured. Then he chuckled. "I said I wouldn't say that anymore. I just, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted you to know. We came this way once before, sort of. We were chasing Hawke. And now we're doing it again. I have a second chance. So to speak. And I'm not going to ruin it."

"You made promises before," Fenris finally rumbled warily. Promises of love, protection, loyalty. All of them broken.

"Yes. I did." Anders pressed his lips together and shifted away. "I won't make anymore." He sighed and brushed down the front of his coat. "Well, I think we're done here. We can go back down now."

"Right." Fenris allowed his gaze to linger for a long moment, absorbing the sight of the Anders, drooping, back-lit by the yellow sky, black clouds and crimson flashes. "Tell me if you tire on the way down," he said as he turned toward the path, "and we will rest."


	34. Misstep One: Fenris at War

**Author's Note:**

Chapter Thirty-four of Walk Soft is undergoing some finagling and I haven't had the time to devote that I would like. So, in the interim, I present the first "Misstep." These will be short deleted scenes and Director's Cuts, a little more sketchy and un-beta'd.

If you are at all curious about anything that happened in this fic, let me know. I can write out scenes that could have happened elsewhere or things that would have happened if a character selected a different option anywhere in the story. I can almost guarantee that I have a discarded scrap of writing for the Things That Could Have Been.

This scrap comes from Chapter 21, when Hawke's rage and hunger blazed across Fereldan. Here, Fenris and a small unit harry the Fereldan army north west of Amaranthine, giving Hawke and the rest of his army a chance to escape.

This is me rolling around in the joy of fight scenes. Unf.

**Misstep One: Fenris at War**

Hawke adopted the Amaranthine chantry as his base camp. Most of the sisters, mothers and templars had been distributed to his army for their entertainment, but he kept one girl to himself. She was a sweet young thing with a nasty temper. Fenris knew that she reminded Hawke of his sister, though the physical resemblance was limited to hair colour; she was raven-haired, cut short and slicked to her skull. The Viscount had her confined to his temporary war room, attached at the ankle to his desk with a delicate chain.

He was playing with her when, two days after their sweeping victory, a messenger collapsed in the doorway, heaving and panting.

"Ships," he gasped. "From Denerim."

"Already?" Hawke rested his chin on the girl's head. She sat on his knee, scowling. A purple bruise covered the side of her drawn face, from her attempt to bite the Viscount's nose off. "I thought they would come by land."

As though summoned by Hawke's words, the hallway echoed with running footsteps and another soldier came to rest beside the first. "Lord Viscount," the woman snapped, performing a salute. "We spotted an army to the south, ser."

"Ah, that's more like it." The Viscount stroked his girl's cheek. "They're trying to trap us. Typical." He snorted. "Well, it would be unwise to make a stand here, I should think." He set the girl aside, stood and stretched. "We retreat for now."

"Ser?"

The Viscount's mind moved rapidly, at odds with his slow, languid movements and speech. "Get everyone to the ships and sail immediately. Ensure there's a mage on every ship. Reserve a hundred men and a dozen mages and have them gather at the gate. We'll need a diversion."

Hawke's plans unfolded in Fenris' mind and the elf started moving before Hawke gave his final orders.

"General Fenris will lead a foot regiment to harry the army coming by land and lead them into the coastal foothills. Once there, they'll scatter. We'll keep some ships on the coast, watching for their signal."

Both soldiers saluted.

Fenris strode unhurriedly down the chantry passages, descended, and stalked through the main hall. Fighters and mages alike shied away from him.

His drake lounged in a makeshift pen in the city's main square, surrounded by a gory buffet of guard and citizenry. The beast was sleepy from overindulgence, making it easy enough to mount, but slow to move. It uttered an irritable, grumbling hiss when Fenris kicked it into motion, and only grudgingly padded toward the gates.

When he arrived, some few dozen men and women waited in a disorderly assemblage. Most looked viciously hungover, but highly satisfied. Some wore gold and jewels like trophies, sparkling in the morning light. All were immensely pleased with their status as a conquering army.

"Fall in," Fenris growled.

They immediately obeyed.

They waited as Amaranthine roiled around them, soldiers running to and fro to loot as much as they could before retreating to the ships. Finally, after a large enough regiment had formed and a group of mages joined them, Fenris signalled for the gatekeepers to raise the portcullis and allow his regiment egress.

Elf and drake led the shabby army through the deserted outskirts of Amaranthine. At the top of a rise, Fenris peered to the south and the approaching cloud of dust. His keen eye picked out sparks of light from steel weapons and armour. The roads glowed white under the bright daylight, the fields of green were vibrant and lush, rippling in a strengthening wind. Behind the approaching army, though, the southern skies darkened to mottled slate and cotton.

"You lot know how to skirmish?" he asked the group behind him.

After some muttering, "Maybe" seemed to be the general consensus.

Fenris looked to the northwest and the hilly coastline. "I suggest you learn quickly," he said grimly.

/.\./.\

Surprisingly, for everyone involved, Fenris' regiment managed to cause enough confusion and damage that Hawke's army slipped out of the grasp of the combined Grey Warden and Fereldan forces.

The majority of Fenris' soldiers were experienced rogues, if nothing else. In a matter of minutes they had planted enough traps and lures in the area around Amaranthine to snag or puncture every foot in a ten mile radius.

The elf ordered his men to move up the roads to the cracked and ragged hills along the coast. Then, sitting comfortably astride his dozing and digesting drake, wrists crossed on the beast's bony neck, he waited before the closed Amaranthine gates.

By the time the Fereldan army reached his post, the elf was sweating in the noon sun. The dusty air held its breath around him, though not a mile away, trees and long grasses lashed to and fro from a storm wind. Half of the sky was black. Thunder grumbled across the hills and echoed the thrum of feet, voices, barking dogs, and metal on metal.

When the Fereldan flags and helms finally topped the last rise, Fenris sighed his relief and kicked his drake to life.

Fereldan infantry, plain and faceless, made up the front lines. A cry went up the ranks when they spotted their lone adversary. Another cry quickly followed when they stumbled over the first traps. Elsewhere, in the deserted hovels and the wilted trees, were more cries. The archers trying to flank Fenris' position had found more traps.

Fenris drew his sword and bared his teeth. His drake gnashed at the air and released a roar reminiscent of its larger female counterparts.

Before the Fereldans could react, Fenris charged.

Alone, he managed to incapacitate great swaths of the opposing army by pure virtue of the fact that he moved fast, he had more of Malice's grenades, he rode a monster, and the arrows tended to go through him and bounce off of his mount.

The Grey Wardens proved more difficult. They were better equipped, better trained, and less inclined to flinch when the drake rushed toward them. Fenris learned to avoid them in the fray. When they became unavoidable, when the line of Grey Wardens overtook their Fereldan companions, Fenris finally turned his drake north, toward the coast.

Most of the Fereldans and a handful of Grey Wardens followed and soon found themselves under fire from Fenris' waiting soldiers.

Fenris and his regiment managed to draw at least half of the foot soldiers away from Amaranthine; attacking, melting into the hills, and then attacking again. It was gruelling work, and many men fell under Fereldan swords and arrows. The tactics were a success, though.

In the evening, once they had pulled away from the Fereldans, Fenris took shelter under the lee of a small cliff. The rock was raw where tree root or past storm had cleaved it away and jagged rocks pained his feet when he dismounted. His drake groaned to its belly nearly immediately, tucking its snout under a claw and closing its eyes.

What remained of his mages and soldiers rested nearby, within shouting distance and eye shot in the murky twilight, but just barely. They preferred to keep their distance from their ill-tempered General and his mount. As he ate a small, tasteless meal, Fenris considered the men and women as they cared for their wounds and quietly commiserated on especially daring encounters. Behind his eyes, Hawke watched as well, pleased by what he saw. This foray into Fereldan had culled out the weak and given the strong a taste for victory.

Hawke silently provided the knowledge that his army in Amaranthine had escaped, unscathed but for the loss of a single ship. The loss was ameliorated by the fact that it had been carrying a crate of grenades and the mage with it had detonated the lot of them, destroying the ship and putting a gaping hole in two of Denerim's.

_Retreat to the coast_, came the Viscount's silent command. _It is time._

Indeed it was. Once Fenris had mounted, his sharp ear pricked at the sound of distant movement, heavy with armour, approaching his position.

He whistled for the attention of his nearby soldiers. They froze and looked up apprehensively.

_Enemy_, he signalled. _Go north._

His lone elven soldier nodded and saluted. She murmured the General's orders to the comparatively blind humans before they crashed away through the scrubby trees and bushes. Fenris mentally sighed at the racket they made. If he wasn't about to play the distraction, they'd be easy prey.

Fenris got his drake up and moving. The beast was exhausted and barely fought its rider before slithering up the cliff face, claws gouging great rents in the stone.

The rocky ridge ran for nearly a mile, too steep on one side for much growth and the raw cliff on the other. A horse couldn't traverse the ridge. Even a man would have trouble. A drake, though, low-hung, sinuous and tenacious, accomplished the feat with ease. Fenris directed it south, squinting through the rain and the sudden, heavy darkness. His vision and hearing were greatly impacted; he didn't realize he had come upon the enemy until his drake stopped and hissed, its long neck arching.

The elf shook his sodden white hair back and peered down. There, finally, he saw the liquid glimmer of wet armour. The Grey Wardens marched with surprising stealth.

Fenris couldn't determine how many were in the group. He did know that he had a better chance taking them by surprise here rather than the treeless scrag by the coast. He pulled out Malice's last grenade and threw it into the midst of the wardens.

The explosion sent men flying, filled the air with the squeal of tearing steal, and ignited a patch of trees. Shouts went up and down the Grey Warden line and Fenris belatedly realized that this wasn't just a force. This was _the_force.

His immediate inclination was to flee.

Then a hail of arrows joined the rain, two of them striking the near-blind elf, and the ground shook from a localized earthquake.

_Mages_, Fenris realized. _Grey Warden mages._

The drake roared as the earth slid out from under it. The beast jumped, twisted in mid-air, and landed amongst the still-burning wreckage, Fenris clinging to its back. A dozen wardens ringed the drake and its dark rider, angry and armed, faceless in the wet, ruddy gloom.

Fenris drew the glowing Sword of Mercy. The drake snaked its head low and breathed out a growl that would have been fire in a female.

Then the elf hauled the drake's head up and sent it scrambling away, fleeing toward the coast.

It felt like the entire army was on his tail. Fenris rode low, torso plastered to the undulating neck of his mount. Branches slapped his face, shoulders and arms. He kept his sword ready, close to his side, and struck at bodies that pounced out of the gloom. Magic demolished the land and foliage around him, but he and his drake were resistant enough to shrug away most of it.

Finally, they broke free from the brush and hit the coast. Lightning streaked across the black sky and forked toward the roiling sea he could barely make out through the torrent. Magic had wakened the sea's anger, and even from this distance, Fenris could measure the massive waves rising from the deeps.

The drake clawed and scrambled over the grassy dunes, suddenly unstable and mired in wet sand. A spirit blast struck them from behind, strong enough that it nearly unseated the elf. The earth quivered again, though that could have just as easily been thunder or the shaking of Fenris' heart and body.

Grey Wardens and Fereldans alike trotted out of the cover of trees. Hundreds of them. Fenris looked back with a mingled sense of dread and relief.

_To the sea!_Hawke commanded.

Fenris obeyed, urging the drake to move, applying potions while he could to both the animal and himself. Wet sand splattered up from the beast's scrambling claws, coating the elf's face, getting into his mouth, nose and eyes.

Hawke commanded him to keep moving. So he did.

The drake pulled up short before the lashing, frothing waves. Fenris turned to regard the oncoming mass of soldiers. He prepared to fight, though his arms were tired and his chest ached. The lyrium activated sluggishly, grudgingly, as though it wanted to rest under someone else's skin. Fenris couldn't blame it.

_One last fight_, he thought with grim pleasure. _And then nothing. The nightmare will end._

Three Fereldan dog warriors closed on him first. The drake snatched one by the foreleg, powerful jaws snapping through bone and sending the hound whining and thrashing in the sand. Fenris fended off another, his sword slashing brightly through the rain. The third mabari got under his defences and tore at his thigh, ripping out a chunk of flesh. Fenris snarled, the pain jolting strength back into his body. He pulsed, stunning the beast, and his drake finished it with a swipe of its claws.

Fenris' momentary strength failed. The storm darkened, the ocean's low roar grew louder, obscuring Fenris' senses. The glittering Grey Warden army approached in waves. Arrows struck the sand and water. Something hit his shoulder. He shuddered at the impact, but felt nothing more than a deep ache and the loss of mobility in his arm.

At the loss of his command, the drake acted on reptilian instinct. It whirled, claws churning, and continued to run toward the sea.

_Where is the sea?_ Fenris wondered groggily. He sagged over the drake's neck, gripping the slick scales and leather straps, and watched wet sand and rock pass under the drake's feet. The water had been only paces behind him, but now it seemed miles away. He peered up through the rain, squinting past clinging hair.

_Oh. There it is._

The wind howled past, toward the wall of water rising ahead of him. Lightning licked and scorched across the sky, illuminating a massive wave that crackled with magic. Atop the wave's roiling crest, a boat perched like an odd, white-winged bird limned in blue light.

_Hawke. Anders. And another twenty dead mages._ How many lives it took to command the sea, Fenris did not know.

More than they had at their disposal, it seemed, as the wave finally grew past its bounds and came crashing down.

/.\./.\

_Wake up._

Fenris blinked. For a moment, he thought he floated in the sea. All was blue and cool and weightless.

_There you are. _Reality hit him harder than the tidal wave as Hawke's frigid, glassy mind tightened around him.

The blue light faded. Anders sat next to him, hands lifted as he finished a healing spell. When he noticed Fenris' eyes open, he smiled and brushed his fingertips over Fenris' cheek. The skin crawled under the mage's gentle touch, as though Anders' fingers left a palpable smear of magic.

"I was worried," Anders murmured dreamily. "But Hawke said you would be all right. He knows how strong you are."

_Too strong._ Fenris turned away, pressing his face into a smooth, silken pillow. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the violent pressure of the sea, the salty intrusions in his mouth and nose and the weight on his chest. If only he had drowned.

"Of course," purred Hawke. A weight pressed down the bed near Fenris' hip and the Viscount's warm, square hand trailed down Fenris' chest. "Not even the sea could overcome you, dear Fenris."

Hawke shoved images into Fenris' mind. The waves had pummelled the shore, drowning the forerunners of the Fereldan army. Anders and the few surviving mages had cast their magic into the deeps and brought Fenris up, waterlogged and half-dead. The drake, too, had somehow survived. The sailors caught the beast in netting and sailed with it thrashing and squalling, bound to the hull just barely above the waterline. Fenris had slept for two days under Anders' vigilant care as the ship carried them back to Kirkwall.

_Open your eyes, pet._

Fenris could not resist the command. He looked up and met Hawke's hungry stare as the man leaned over him.

"Anders did well," he commented, his cold stare tracing down Fenris' naked torso. "Shall we celebrate your recovery? Three more days until Kirkwall... I want to make the most of them."


	35. Misstep Two: Bustier

**Author's Note:**

This was a joke I couldn't really find a place for, so now it's a little drabble. I love the mechanism in DA2 where you find random stuff and somehow find and return it to its owner. They always seem to have the money to pay you. And I imagine my rogue Warden being so aghast at the thought of returning something that he could sell so much more quickly, with none of this running around business.

Chapter 34 is coming soon, I promise, with another wicked sharp turn.

I miss the Warden...I realized that as I put this together. So this is all me being nostalgic for happier days. Takes place before they cross the desert.

**Misstep Two – Brunhilde's Brassy, Buckled Bustier**

The Warden paused mid-step in the middle of the Nevarran street, his head turned down, his gaze unfocused, his face a narrow mask of concentration.

Anders nearly tripped over the elf. "Is something wrong?" he asked, glancing over him. The Warden seemed fine, but not all problems were physical. When he looked to Fenris, the Tevinter merely shrugged. "Warden—?"

"Shh!" The Warden snapped up a hand. "I'm listening."

Anders frowned and tried to hear whatever caught the Warden's attention. His pitiful human ears, though, could pick up only the many Nevarran city noises, shopkeepers, livestock, the mumble of many people. Even this relatively quiet side street echoed with the din.

Again, when he looked to Fenris, he received nothing more than a shrug.

Finally, the Warden turned his head and grinned. "It sounds like...treasure!" He pointed at an alley a few paces ahead. "Over there!" Without waiting for a response, he dashed forward and disappeared around the corner.

"He can hear treasure?" Anders asked.

"It would seem so," Fenris rumbled, a dark eyebrow quirked.

"Is this an elf thing?"

"...No."

They trailed after the Warden and found him prying open a crate at the end of the alley, next to a rough wooden door. Dog dug around in some rubbish nearby. The Warden muttered a string of Dalish curses as he tried to wedge the tip of his dagger between the tight boards.

"Warden, don't you think that might, well, belong to someone?"

"What?" The Warden peered up, shaking red hair out of his eyes. "Belong to someone? But it's sitting out here. In the street."

"It might be a delivery," Anders added. "For the owner of this fine, um, apothecary?" He squinted at the old door and the building. "Taxidermist?"

The Warden grunted and pulled, but his dagger merely skidded out from between two boards and sent some splinters flying. He groaned and kicked the crate. "It doesn't look like a delivery to me. It's just a box that smells like treasure. It doesn't even have a lock!" He kicked it again.

Fenris sighed and stepped past Anders. "If it bites me, Warden, I will find a way to put it in your bedroll." His arm brightened and he thrust it into the crate. The Warden, smiling in delight, backed away and watched as Fenris pulled out the crate's contents.

"Fantastic, Fenris! It's..." The Warden's enthusiasm failed. "It's a woman's bustier."

"A brass bustier," Fenris added, turning it over.

"With buckles." Anders peered over his shoulder. "Nice quality, too. Good find, Warden. I'm sure you'll look lovely in it."

"H-hey!" The Warden recoiled. "It sounded like treasure! It's probably worth something. We'll sell it."

"It belongs to someone." Gingerly, Fenris spread the burnished, brassy garment wide, the buckles jingling. "See?" He pointed at a name etched on the inside of the left cup.

"So? I sell a lot of things that belong to other people. They never seem to mind. She probably lost it. Won't even miss it."

"Whenever Hawke returns things, the people give him a reward," Anders pointed out. "We should find her."

"How? We're in an unfamiliar city. We can't just wander about and expect to find this woman." The Warden cupped his hands over his own chest. "I mean, unless you want to go around and match the size. I volunteer Anders for that job."

Fenris snorted and snapped the bustier closed. "I think we should leave it be."

Anders and the Warden cast wide-eyed looks of horror at him. "But the money," the Warden murmured.

"Some poor maiden could be lost out there without her brass and buckles," Anders added. "Think of the good we could do."

"Right." Fenris rolled his eyes and tossed the bustier at Anders. "Then you carry it, abomination."

Anders squinted at the name , then deftly tucked the garment under his arm. "Gladly," he responded primly. "Nothing says good taste like a brassy accessory. Let's find this Brunhilde and receive our reward."

Later, after an hour of walking and ignoring the Warden's pleas to just sell the thing, the trio halted in an archway and stared in at a small courtyard. Red lanterns hung from ropes crisscrossing the yard, casting a red light on the area even in the afternoon sun. A far door glowed brightly. Loud laughter and boisterous cries rolled across the yard to the three watchers.

"Why am I not surprised?" Fenris murmured. "You have led us to a brothel, abomination."

Anders snorted. "It just seemed the most likely place."

"And you are probably correct." Fenris nodded toward a figure leaning against the wall at the side of the court, chatting with other scantily clad people. "I wager that is her. Or him."

"How much do you wager?" the Warden asked, perking up.

"I will not gamble with you," Fenris responded firmly. "You already emptied my purse. Twice." He prodded Anders in the small of the back with a wicked claw. "Go on. Get our money."

Anders shivered and pretended that he didn't savour even that brief touch. He hurried forward, as much to escape his reaction to his companion as to claim their reward.

"Pardon me, madam," he said, bowing to the broad-shouldered and heavily painted person. "But does this belong to you?" He presented the bustier.

"Well, yes!" Brunhilde exclaimed happily, voice a good octave lower than Anders'. "What a remarkable surprise. I thought I'd lost the Blighted thing. And it was always my favourite." Brunhilde accepted the bustier and held it over an expansive chest. "And what can I do to thank such a handsome creature?"

Anders bowed more deeply. Aware of the elves watching, he offered a playful grin. "From you, madam? I would accept a kiss and nothing more."

When he returned to his companions, a bright pink lip-print covering his cheek, he winked jauntily at their aghast stares. "You see? Doing good is its own reward. Brunhilde is now a happy woman. Or man. Or whatever."

"And so ends the tale of Brunhilde's brassy, buckled bustier," the Warden muttered sullenly as he followed Anders. "With no money for us."

Wryly, Fenris said, "The next time you hear treasure, Warden, do not let Anders collect the reward."


	36. Chapter 34

**Author's Note:**

Sorry for the wait! On the plus side, this chapter is 8500 words, so that's something, right? Right?!

Zevran took over. It's not my fault. He has pointy knives and a lot of poisons and a very, very nice smile.

Next time... Fighting! Magic! Tevinters! The power of friendship!

Many, many thank-yous to Paula (I wish I knew how to make pretty links, but here is the URL for her fic, which you should go and read, because I love it even though I barely know the fandom, it's that good: u/107408/paulaH-and-GJ), without whom I would be lost and afraid.

**Warnings**: Angst and some assassin love. All of a sudden, this fic is Fenris/Zevran. Who knew?

**Playlist Rec:**

Dionysus - Heart is Crying

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty-four**

Zevran and Isabela met them at the bottom of the peak, the former with the bruised eyelids of a sleepless night. He paused mid-pace in the centre of their small campsite and his golden gaze flicked over Fenris, scrutinizing. His expression briefly softened, then he spotted Anders over Fenris' shoulder and frowned.

"And he is still with us," Zevran sneered. "I assume the spell failed."

"No," Anders panted behind Fenris. He used his staff to keep his balance as he scrambled down the last steep slope. Although his skin was pale and glistened with a sheen of sweat, he hadn't fallen behind.

Fenris fought the niggling sense of respect growing for the mage's perseverance. _He should not push so hard_, he scoffed, appeasing his need to criticize. _He will be no help at all if he collapses._

"The spell worked," Anders continued once his boots found flat ground. He mopped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve. "It worked better than I'd hoped. After a day or two, I can perform a divination and show you."

"You wish to wallow in your superiority."

"No, no, of course not." Anders shook his head, his protests weary. "I could divine your favourite kill if that would make you feel better."

"No need to divine it," Zevran muttered darkly. "You will live it. Very briefly." His lip curled. He slid his long dagger from the sheath on his back and stalked forward. "In fact, why bother keeping the snake around?"

Fenris hurriedly intercepted, sliding into the assassin's path. "What are you doing?"

Zevran's glare snapped to Fenris. "We are done with him. He will bite you if we do not exterminate him now."

Fenris had proclaimed the very same to Hawke more times than he could remember. Now, though...

He glanced over his shoulder at the drooping mage. Anders made no response. He merely looked on. Fenris felt an absolute conviction that, whatever he chose to do, the mage would comply, even if it meant his own death. Isabela, too, stood back, her arms folded as she watched the scene play out. Fenris alone had to choose Anders' fate. He could no longer hide behind the excuse of Anders' spell to keep Zevran at bay.

"Zevran," Fenris began. He paused, wetting his lips, his mind scrambling to sort itself out. He felt so much anger, confusion and deep, terrible betrayal when he thought about Anders. Despite this, he balked at the thought of losing the man. They had shared a connection that Fenris hadn't even experienced with Hawke. The shared experiences under Danarius' Hawke solidified that connection even more; no one else could understand what they had gone through except each other. He didn't want to continue on without him, especially not with a confrontation with Danarius and Hawke waiting at the end of their journey.

"What is your choice?"

"I think we will be stronger with him," Fenris finally and carefully pronounced. "So far, he has proven himself useful and I will ensure that he has no chance to turn against us."

"Never again," Anders murmured under his breath. Perhaps he meant it for his own ears, for the words were too quiet for any human to overhear.

"And what of revenge?" Zevran demanded. "You suffered by his hand!"

"I did. And he suffered as well."

"And what of me?" Zevran slashed a gloved hand through the air and his face twisted into a grimace of rage and sorrow. "This serpent is the reason my lover rots in the earth! So what of my revenge, Fenris? I left his fate to you, knowing that what he did to you was worse than death, but now—" He paused, jaw working, his skin suffused in an enraged flush. "Now that you forgive him, I cannot stand by!"

"Fenris is wise not to throw away a powerful resource," Isabela interjected, her tone unusually serious.

"And is that all he is to you, Fenris? A resource? Nothing more than a sharp blade? A potent poison? A beast of war?" Zevran's voice dripped with disdain.

Fenris hid a flinch from Zevran's attack. The assassin had good reason for his anger; Fenris couldn't strike back. He stood in stubborn silence, unable to form a response. So rarely in the past had he been called on to explain his actions. So rarely were those actions of his own choice.

Then Anders spoke quietly. "Believe me, you would do me a favour if you sent me to the Maker."

"If you do not wish to live, then why are you here?"

"Because I've run from too many crimes already." Anders lifted his chin and gazed impassively at the furious assassin. "I refuse to run again. I will bear this guilt until the day I die." His attention shifted to Fenris and he smiled sadly. "But if I can spend the rest of my life fighting for what is right, at your side, then it will be a life worth living."

Fenris recoiled, taken aback as he had been by Anders' declaration that Fenris now formed the lode stone of the mage's moral compass. "I do not know what is right," he replied uneasily.

"Perhaps not, but between the two of us we might find some kind of balance."

"Pfah!" Zevran spat. "Such high ideals! All talk of what is right and what is wrong. How can you tell, in a world such as this? There is no right, no wrong."

"Says one of the heroes of Ferelden," Anders returned, smiling crookedly. "Why did you risk your life to end the Blight?"

"Loyalty," snapped the assassin. "The man I loved, the man who spared my life, pit himself against the Archdemon and every Darkspawn the Deep Roads had to vomit up. Love, you serpent, and loyalty. Two things I am sure you know little about."

Anders winced, but didn't drop his gaze. "I know very well," he responded quietly. "You and I aren't so different. But love made a monster out of me instead of a hero."

"Love?" Isabela chimed in. "Or obsession? I remember how you looked at Hawke. If anyone would join him on a rampage across Thedas, it would be you." She smirked at Fenris. "No offence, sweet, but I know you have more sense."

Fenris shrugged. "None taken. I think." He glanced from Zevran to Anders and back again, finding the mage's expression of raw devotion too difficult to look upon. Zevran's fury, at least, didn't leave Fenris with the sensation that a hundred panicky butterflies had gotten trapped in his stomach. "The abomination will remain with us until he proves himself a liability." Here, he had to swallow his own bitter anger, set aside the pain of betrayal. "I...do not believe that he was ultimately responsible for the Warden's death. Danarius is, and whatever Hawke has become. For which they will die."

"And if I refuse?" Zevran demanded. His eyes seemed unusually bright as he glared at Fenris. "You may forgive him, but I want his blood!" He stepped forward, his intent as obvious as the glittering edge of his enchanted blade.

Fenris grabbed Zevran's arms and ducked his head close to the other elf's. "Zevran," he murmured. "Stop this."

Zevran snarled and tried to wrench away, unsuccessfully. "Unhand me!"

"Please."

The assassin paused. He glared at Fenris through stray blond hairs, his expression angry and wounded.

"Anders hasn't lost the power he held with Hawke," Fenris continued slowly. "He could strip your flesh, burn you, freeze you, kill you in so many ways at the merest thought." As he spoke, he heard a tiny, distressed noise from Anders, but no objection. The man may be a healer, but he could not deny that Hawke had made him a killer.

"All the more reason to be rid of him," Zevran growled.

"And yet he has never retaliated against you." Fenris stared intently into Zevran's eyes, keeping himself between the assassin and his target. "He turned his back on Hawke to save your life, Zevran. He saved both of us. Now he's built a storm to stop Hawke's army." He drew in a slow breath and spoke as much to himself as to Zevran. "I can no longer see a reason to distrust him."

Zevran sagged in Fenris' grasp, his head bowing. He whispered something, a name, and his voice trembled with grief.

_The Warden._ Fenris' heart squeezed in sympathy and conjured reflections of his own deep loss. Hawke was gone. Worse than gone. Defiled.

Fenris paused. He thought of the _thing_ that Hawke had become. Was that really Hawke or just a creation of Danarius' wearing Hawke's face?

He thrust the idea away, not willing to give himself false hope. Not even Danarius was that powerful. No, that was Hawke, but not the one he knew. His Hawke was gone. And he took the Warden with him, along with half of Thedas. Fenris had friends out there, in Ferelden and Kirkwall, people he had cherished and now knew nothing of their fate. Since waking in Morrigan's Thaig, he had locked those fears away. Now, though, he had to look at the face of them: a tired, broken assassin.

He stepped closer, shifting his grip from restraint to a firm embrace. "I am sorry," he murmured into Zevran's smooth hair. "Killing Anders will not bring him back. It will not bring any of them back."

Zevran's free hand clutched in the small of Fenris' spine and his brow rested against Fenris' shoulder. When he moved, shaking his head, the tip of his ear tickled Fenris' chin. "It would improve my mood," he muttered after a long sigh.

Fenris snorted. "I'm sure it would. Until we encountered some Magisters and they made a blood puppet out of you."

"And what a puppet I would be." Zevran squeezed him tighter, pressing the lengths of their bodies together, before releasing him. When he lifted his head, he seemed calm, though his eyes shone damply. "Very well. The abomination will not die by my hand. Not until he turns." He sheathed his dagger as he spoke and cast a glare past Fenris' shoulder. "I will be watching you, snake."

Anders nodded, his gaze locked on the sandy ground, his face set in a troubled frown.

Fenris turned away, feeling slightly more...stable. His relationship with Anders, as rocky and treacherous as the peaks around them, seemed to have reached a relatively safe plateau. Now that he had made a stand to Zevran and admitted his growing trust in the mage, he felt a bit more clear-headed.

Unfortunately, this did little for the fledgling resurgence of desire and affection. As Fenris fell into step with Zevran and they started back toward the river and their waiting ship, he felt a growing awareness of Anders trailing quietly behind them. Once they had been lovers, even locked in conflict over Hawke. Now Fenris worried that this attraction might lure him through the tortured landscape of their past and back into the mage's arms.

If Fenris could bear to forgive the mage, then what would keep him from seeking Anders out and claiming him again? What kept them apart? The mere possibility of taking Anders back sent a chill down Fenris' spine, all the worse because he felt as much desire as fear.

/.\./.\

His concern encouraged him to accept Zevran's invitation later that evening, when they returned to Isabela's ship. Anders retreated to the crew quarters, to a pleased outcry from his Antivan friends. Fenris did his best to ignore the happy reunion and his pang of irritated envy. What right did Anders have to pretend at friendship with the sailors?

"Dine with me," Zevran demanded when they ascended onto the main deck. The sun hovered over the western horizon and the scent of their evening meal coiled up from the galley. He tugged on Fenris' wrist, toward his own cabin. "Alone. I miss our time together. Do you remember?"

Fenris allowed a small smile and rumbled, "I remember, though I don't know how. I was so sick from the drink I could barely lift my sword."

Zevran laughed, expression changing from demanding to relieved. "See? We had great fun."

They retreated to the assassin's narrow cabin once Fenris had discarded his armour in his own quarters. Joining Zevran may be unwise, but the alternative seemed so much worse. He didn't want to think on Anders, their past or their future.

Unfortunately, Zevran didn't seem to realize what Fenris was trying to avoid. "What do you intend with the mage?" he asked after a quiet sailor had brought their meals and departed.

"I don't wish to speak of it," Fenris replied. He pointed his spoon at his chowder. "It will ruin my appetite, and this soup is difficult enough to eat."

"I feel I should know," Zevran countered. "I should know where I stand with you. And then I will work on getting to where I want to stand with you. Or lie, rather." He leered.

Fenris expected to feel uncomfortable with the assassin's unguarded affection, or the cool ambivalence he had experienced in Denerim, when his mind and heart still ached from the months with Hawke. Now, though, his blood stirred at the invitation. He leaned back on Zevran's low stool, resting against the wall, and propped his feet on the edge of the narrow bed close to Zevran's knee. He considered Zevran's relaxed figure, dressed down in leather trousers and a loose shirt, enough golden skin glowing in the lamplight to tantalize the most cold-hearted observer.

_He is very attractive_, Fenris pondered, allowing thoughts and emotions to rise that he had locked away for weeks. _Attractive, skilled, powerful, influential..._

More importantly, he wasn't Anders.

"Why are you interested in me?" Fenris wondered aloud. "From the beginning, you stood by me."

Zevran set his bowl aside, replacing it with a glass of amber brandy. He reclined, lifting his legs and stretching like a feline. For a moment, he stared down into his drink, giving Fenris the opportunity to examine his tattooed face, his slender neck, the curve of his collarbone as his shirt yawned open.

"Do you remember the night the witch and I stole you from Hawke?" he finally asked.

"I do." Those memories, at least, stood out brightly from the dark horrors lurking in Fenris' mind. He recalled the old farmhouse, the gentle sleep spell, and Morrigan herself, all pale skin, luminescent eyes and the _click_-_click_ of spider feet. "You smashed a miasma flask in my face and dragged me through a magical gate."

Zevran smirked. "I carried you, my friend. I held you in my arms, against my heart, and carried you to safety. Then I held you down as Morrigan freed you from your collar. Finally, when you fell unconscious, I brought you to a warm bed and tucked you in. Do you know what this means?"

Fenris silently shook his head.

"I take lives, I do not save them. But when I watched you sleeping, I knew that I would fight to protect you. Your life became important to me, because I had saved it." Zevran briefly frowned. "This is difficult to put into words. I feel...responsible, perhaps. Connected to you. And I wonder if my Warden felt the same way about me. That, once he had saved me, he belonged to me and I to him." He sighed and drank. "Or perhaps not. He did save a lot of people. And not all of them found their way to his tent."

"You feel responsible for me?" A novel concept. He rolled the idea around, replacing Zevran and the Warden with himself and Hawke. Hawke had, on several occasions, stepped in to rescue Fenris in some way. Did he, too, feel responsible for Fenris' safety, even before they became lovers?

"I am concerned for your well-being, yes," Zevran agreed. "Though this may be due, in part, to the fact that I cannot bear the thought of your divine flesh coming to harm."

Fenris fought a smile and lost. "You are too kind."

"This is true. If I was not so kind, I would have had you in my bed." Zevran chuckled, shook his head and tossed back the last of his drink. "Now I fear I lost my chance."

"Don't give up just yet," Fenris murmured. He carefully watched the movement of shock cross Zevran's narrow features. Quick as a heartbeat, brilliant delight replaced the assassin's surprise. Fenris relished the expression, knowing Zevran's affection to be uncomplicated, somehow innocent, compared to the sticky webs binding Fenris, Anders and Hawke together.

_Do not think of Anders_, Fenris reminded himself. _Trusting him not to turn on you is one thing, but..._ The thought trailed away, replaced by flashes of sensory memory: Anders' skin under his hands, the tremor and taste of magical potential, his low gasps...

Before this could banish the heat in his flesh, he pushed away all thought of Anders and focused on the elf before him. With almost frantic enthusiasm, he dropped his half-eaten dinner and lunged forward, reaching for Zevran's warmth.

Zevran's rich laugh, firm touch and eager lips welcomed him. He grasped Fenris' shoulders and pulled him down into a hot, liquor-sweet kiss. With artful confidence, he caressed twin paths from Fenris' shoulders, down his flanks, to his narrow hips. When he squeezed, Fenris' body burned with unexpectedly strong need.

Fenris tore into Zevran's clothing, eager to touch smooth, flushed skin free from the taint of suppressed magic. He stripped away Zevran's shirt and buried his face in the crook of the assassin's neck and shoulder, nipping the spicy flesh. Zevran's laugh trembled into a shaky groan and a breathless curse. He rose up between Fenris' knees, nudging against the throbbing pressure in Fenris' groin. His clever fingers quickly unfastened Fenris' under-armour. Fenris gasped at the sensation as Zevran found the lyrium coiling across his stomach and ribs.

"Sensitive," Zevran panted, his breath gusting across Fenris' ear and flooding chills down the side of his body. "I wish my tattoos were the same." He curled upward and brought his tongue to a river of lyrium meandering across Fenris' shoulder.

Fenris nearly choked. He stilled, eyes falling closed to appreciate the hot, slippery caress and the sparks it ignited in the nerves under his skin. "It...has its advantages," he groaned. He pressed Zevran down, covering the Antivan, grinding, panting at the rush, the delicious tightening low in his belly.

Zevran responded with a series of quick, hard thrusts, flicks of the hip like the flicks of his knives. He dug at Fenris' trousers, deftly tugging the laces free, and slid eager fingers around Fenris' swollen flesh.

Fenris jerked and groaned. He braced himself on shivering arms, hands clutching the fine linen on either side of Zevran's head, and gazed down at the assassin, at the blond hairs feathered across the dark pillows, at the expression like a contented cat, eyes heavy-lidded and lips curved.

"You are," Zevran husked, stroking Fenris' hardening desire, "ridiculously awesome."

Fenris snorted. "Can't you think of something better to do with your mouth?"

"I thought you would never ask." Zevran twisted and, with sudden agility and strength, wrestled Fenris onto his back.

Cold panic bloomed in his gut, rising up his throat in a pained grunt. He froze, paralysed by shock and the horror of lying prone under another's body.

Zevran slithered down. He hovered over Fenris' ankles and busily stripped Fenris' trousers away. If he noticed Fenris' panic, he didn't show it. He kissed a path down the Tevinter's tense legs, his warm breath and cool hair tantalizing every inch of skin. Fenris' perturbation faded, washed away by Zevran's skillful, worshipful ministrations.

By the time he worked his way back up, Fenris had relaxed into a quivering puddle, clenching the bedsheets and sighing at every caress. Zevran's liquid, uncomplicated heat engulfed him, so welcome after the long months of torture and battle.

/.\./.\

Anders stumbled up from the crew quarters, eyes gummy and head aching, his stomach trying to claw to freedom via his throat. After a mere day on land, his sea sickness seemed to have returned in full force. His unsteady legs carried him through the darkness to the nearest railing. He clutched the polished wood and let his head hang over the river glimmering silver in the light of the setting moon. The sun still lurked below the uneven eastern horizon and most of the sailors slept. Anders had found only despair in his own bunk, haunted by the distant cries of the Blight, Justice's weeping and the blank-eyed stares of the dead.

_Where is Zevran when I need him?_ he wondered dismally. _I could use a blade to throw myself on._

Thoughts of the assassin only worsened his misery and added a healthy dose of confusion. Fenris had stood up to Zevran in Anders' defence, surprising the mage and offering the hope of some kind of reconciliation between them. On their return to the ship, though, the two elves had promptly retreated into one of the cabins.

_He's still in there_, Anders knew, carefully keeping his gaze on the dawn-limned water below him. _With Zevran._

He felt he had been transported back to Kirkwall, when he stood by as his beloved Hawke fell for the dark, brooding elf in the first place. Only now he longed for Fenris and had to watch love, once again, pull away from his grasp.

_Is it me?_ he wondered. _Maker, isn't it bad enough that you made a mage out of me? _He palpitated his aching temples. _No, I can't blame the Maker for this one. He gave me love and I threw it away._ As miserable as he felt, he could not resent Fenris for accepting Zevran's affection. Fenris deserved every happiness the world could offer after his lifetimes of suffering. Anders would carry on, keeping his aching heart to himself. So long as Fenris allowed the mage to walk by his side, Anders would carry on.

This resolution suffered its first blow after the sun rose and the rest of the ship stirred to life. A handful of sailors, yawning and joking in their lilting tongue, scrambled into the ropes to open the sails and harness the morning breeze. Shortly after, Zevran and Fenris emerged from the cabins, staked out a spot on deck and began to spar.

Anders tried not to watch, but he would have had better luck trying not to scratch a bug bite. The sight of the elf hit him like a blow, making his breath catch and his heart lurch.

Fenris, stripped to the waist in a rare display, fought barehanded with Zevran. Like the predawn river, he rippled with silver as he moved. Zevran glowed golden, a small sun to match Fenris' moonlight. They wrestled, twisted and threw each other, parting and meeting again and again. Anders looked on, entranced by the poetry of their movements, their perfect symmetry, and could have cried. He couldn't imagine anything else so beautiful...and so out of reach.

"_Pescado_!"

Anders tore himself away from the sight of the elves and turned to see his Antivan translator climbing up from the crew deck. The youth sauntered toward him in his easy, rolling gait, a wide smile on his comely features. He carried a basket. As he approached, Anders spotted a familiar selection of herbs heaped within it.

"You need some potions?" Anders asked. He returned the youth's smile with one of his own, pleased by the distraction and the opportunity to perform a task that didn't involve the immense, destructive forces of nature.

The Antivan pushed the basket into Anders' arms and said something too quick for him to catch. The way he touched a scabbed scrape along his ribs provided the translation. Anders nodded and, in a foolish, automatic reaction to the Antivan's gesture, reached for the wound. He gently placed finger and thumb on either side and sent a tiny rush of healing energy into the damaged flesh.

The youth yelped and leapt away, tripped over a low crate and fell. Anders stared, shocked by his own actions and the Antivan's reaction. The sure-footed sailors never fell, no matter how the ship rocked.

For a moment, the youth sprawled on the deck and stared up at him, pale and wide-eyed. He vigorously rubbed the smooth brown skin over his ribs, as though he couldn't believe the wound was gone.

"A-are you all right?" Anders asked, starting forward.

The Antivan leapt to his feet, gaped for a heartbeat more, and then dashed away, disappearing back into the crew quarters.

Anders groaned, covering his eyes. He had done it again, used magic where he shouldn't have and ruined something good. He knew they didn't want magic on their ship. He even knew why, or at least a sketchy account of the legends from which their superstitions originated.

There went his friendship with the playful Antivans.

When he lifted his head, he expected a ship of angry, distrustful stares. To his relief, no one else seemed to have noticed the exchange. Fenris and Zevran continued to fight, the sailors worked or watched, Isabela had emerged and leaned over the rail of the stern deck, next to the helm, her delighted gaze fixed on the two elves.

_They'll know by tonight, I'm sure_, he thought, sighing. _He'll tell them all about the deceptive Pescado, a mage incognito who brought the wrath of the river upon them, provoked by the use of magic on a ship._

Before he managed to make his situation any worse, Anders shuffled toward the galley. He would beg a mortar and pestle and the other tools to craft his potions, then make himself scarce. At least if he hid in the bow, he could avoid watching and yearning after Fenris. No amount of hiding, though, could chase the image from his mind, of the sun and the moon melding together in the belly of the _Island Queen_.

/.\./.\

"One more night on my ship," Isabela said. She leaned against the ship's rail and eyed Fenris where he rested in the shade. "Would you believe me if I told you a law on my ship is that the captain must be invited to all couplings at least once before disembarking?"

Fenris gazed up at the woman with amusement. "I would believe that it is a law on your ship," he murmured. "But not one I intend to obey."

The pirate shrugged unashamedly. "Well, I tried. This might be our last night with comfortable beds and a ready supply of oil and Antivans."

"I only need the one Antivan," Fenris replied, allowing a slight smirk. "Any more than that and I might strain something."

Isabela laughed, sounding startled. "Someone's in a good mood," she observed. "I'm glad to see it. Though, I have to admit...I'm surprised."

"Surprised?"

"I thought that you and Anders were, well, patching the hull, so to speak. Fixing the leaks. Darning your stockings."

"Isabela." Fenris pointedly stared down at his bare toes wiggling over the river. "I do not wear stockings. And no. That time is past." He said it as much to himself as to her, conjuring his night with Zevran as a strong reminder of just how happy he could be without Anders. He had slept well, in an exhausted stupor, and experienced only a brief moment of discomfort when he woke and the blond haired man next to him had resolved into Zevran.

"And I was so sure when you sided with Anders." Isabela hummed thoughtfully. "A pity. I was looking forward to a duel with Zevran. Or you. Or both. What kind of captain would I be to spend my last night on the ship alone? I'd be breaking my own rules."

"You could try Anders," Fenris muttered darkly. "He is...amiable."

"Maybe at one time." She smiled slightly, almost sadly. "He isn't interested in me. I tried."

"Really." Fenris quirked a brow and looked the pirate over. The Anders he remembered wouldn't think twice about indulging in Isabela's tanned and bountiful assets. He seemed to remember the two humans discussing their mutual experiences in their favourite brothels, in the long ago Kirkwall days.

She nodded. "He changed. I suppose that's to be expected, based on what you told me. Someone doesn't go through all that without changing. Or breaking."

"Hn." Fenris grunted a noncommittal response and set his gaze on the water passing below his feet. He had finally reached some internal equilibrium about the mage; he didn't need Isabela's comments to throw that off. He didn't want to know how or why Anders had changed. "It does not matter," he rumbled after a moment of silence, broken by the raucous calls of a flock of river birds. "Not anymore."

Isabela regarded him, arms folding under her breasts. The syrupy, evening sun gleamed off her heavy bronze jewelry. She scrutinized him for long enough that Fenris began to feel uncomfortable and wondered what, exactly, she saw. For all that she was a roguish pirate and a thief, she had enough world experience for several lifetimes.

"Well," she finally said. "Whatever you say, love."

She swayed away before Fenris could respond.

Fenris stared after her, then shook his head and twisted back around. Instead of dwelling on the pirate's teasing, Fenris let his thoughts return to the river and the passage of time. _One night_, he echoed her statement. _Then hard, cross-country riding to Vol Dorma. If we get lucky and find horses. If Hawke doesn't already have the Eluvian._ He pushed the thought away. If he considered it too much, he became lethargic and depressed. He couldn't _not_ believe that they had a chance. If he did, he would just... give up. _And in Vol Dorma, we find Danarius. Or at least pick up his trail and hunt him down._

Fenris allowed himself a few idle moments of simply imagining Danarius' shock, fear and slow, agonizing death. He had killed the man's doppleganger already, so his imagination was very, very good.

"It worries me when you smile."

Anders took Isabela's place at the rail, hunched over and face ashen. He glanced sideways at Fenris, a strained smirk on his pale lips.

Fenris looked him over, startled to realize that he hadn't seen or heard the mage all day. Anders had tucked himself away somewhere, wallowing in illness by the looks of him. Despite the sea sickness, Fenris noted his steadily improving condition—the new muscle under his golden, freckled skin, the sheen of his hair—and quickly looked away when he realized he was staring.

"And why is that?" Fenris asked, keeping his gaze and expression distant. He felt uneasy with Anders' presence, though he could think of no immediate reason to send him away. For now, he would cautiously hold a conversation with the man.

"Because I have years of intensive training in reading arcane signs." Anders carefully lowered himself to the deck and joined Fenris in dangling his legs off the edge. "To one with my vast abilities, your smile portends violence and the need to get my robes cleaned."

Fenris didn't mean to laugh, but a short chuckle managed to escape before he could clamp down on it.

"Maker help us all," Anders continued, the pitch of his voice rising. "Now you're laughing? When will the madness end?!"

"I will not deny that I may or may not have been thinking about violence," Fenris managed, lip twitching. "However, I believe that it is entirely within my rights to do so."

"Of course." The mage's tone became gentle and solemn. "Every man has the right to think or not think whatever they wish."

The words surprised the elf. He looked over and felt a lurch in his stomach. Anders' expression was unusually serious and thoughtful.

"Then we are in agreement," Fenris murmured.

A smile passed over the mage's face, then disappeared as though blown away by the wind, replaced by contemplation. "Where is Zevran?" he asked. "I thought he would be here with you."

Fenris' brow twitched. "And what does it matter to you?"

"Er." Anders busily began to pick something green out from under a fingernail. "It doesn't matter, not really, who you keep company with. I'm merely curious."

_Liar._ Fenris narrowed his gaze on Anders' down-turned face. He tried to summon comforting irritation at the mage's audacity, but it wouldn't come. Seeing the mage unhappy didn't make Fenris feel anything other than exasperation and that shadow of fearful desire. Anders had declared his intentions to fight at Fenris' side. The implications hung between them, strengthened by Isabela's confession that Anders refused her advances. Outwardly, at least, Anders' distress came honestly.

Fenris resolutely turned away. He called on the memory of Zevran's touch and used it to shield himself. Projecting nonchalance, he replied, "He is working with the ship's smith, sharpening his weapons and fixing his armour."

"For the journey ahead."

"Indeed. Are you ready?"

"As much as I ever will be. We're well stocked with Elfroot potions. There isn't much more I can do than that. All I can sharpen is my mind."

"And that will require more than a single night."

Anders chuckled. "I've been trying for years and I still have a dull wit."

Fenris snorted and failed to hold back a slight smile. The more they talked, the less he remembered not to smile, not to laugh. Surely, though, with Zevran protecting his heart, he could allow some small cordiality between himself and Anders. Nothing would happen.

The distant galley bell rang, announcing the evening meal.

Anders groaned. "If I have to eat more fish, I'm going to throw up."

Fenris climbed to his feet. "You are going to throw up, anyway, so just eat it."

The mage dropped his head into his arms. "I think I'll just stay here, actually."

Anders' shoulders were still sharp as blades, his spine like a craggy ridge. Fenris loomed over him, hesitant to touch, struggling with his concern over Anders' condition. After a moment and a firm reminder that this meant nothing, he placed his tattooed palm on the man's back.

The mage jolted, gasping and snapping his head up.

Fenris nearly recoiled. Touching Anders felt like touching fire or ice. Under his skin rushed magic, raw magic. Fenris' palm nearly vibrated with it, his fingers trying to curl and grasp. _He did not feel this way before_, he thought, wondering at the sensation. _Is it the Fade? Is it still burning inside him?_ It crept up his arm, following the lyrium, like a warm finger or tongue—

He snatched his hand away, blinking rapidly, and coughed. "Think what you like," he said roughly. "You will eat."

"Yes. All right." Anders seemed dazed. He stood unsteadily.

The mage's obedience disturbed Fenris nearly as much as the lash of energy and his own reaction to it. He continued hurriedly, "Because we might need you. To do magic. With the Eluvian."

"Of course." Anders lurched toward him, movements wooden.

Fenris backpedalled, hands up to ward off the other man. _I need my gauntlets_, he thought urgently. _Or else I cannot touch him._

_Not that I want to touch him!_ His face felt hot and tight with embarrassment and anxiety. _I do not want him_, he protested weakly. _He is a liar and a fool and I chose Zevran!_

_Just look at him_, prompted a quite voice in his mind._ Danarius killed armies of slaves for that kind of power. And here he is. Needing you._

Anders seemed confused. Or caught in a rush of sickness. His shadowed eyes were half-lidded, his cheek flushed and his skin shimmered with sweat. He looked on Fenris as though waiting for something, his hands hanging at his sides.

_No. He could be a god kneeling at my feet and I would not take him. That time is past. There is nothing between us but bad memories._

"It," Fenris started. He cleared his throat and licked lips that had gone suddenly dry. "It isn't getting better," he asserted. "The Fade is leaking through."

Anders shook his head, blinking rapidly, and rubbed his temple. "Justice is still here," he replied quietly. "That won't change. After Hawke, though... He's closer to the surface, I suppose. Or I'm closer to the Fade. I'm getting stronger. For what that's worth." His smile was wry and humourless. "I don't think that will change."

"Then we both have one foot in the Fade." Fenris eyed the mage for a moment, then shrugged off the clinging webs of his thoughts. "Come on."

"Of course, mesere."

Fenris snorted and turned on his heel, headed for the galley.

Zevran intercepted him at the entrance to the long room, his warm smile failing when he caught sight of Anders. "What an unfortunate shadow you have, _amore_. You should send it back and ask the Maker for a new one. I recommend an attractive elven Crow." He tugged Fenris nearer and murmured, "I will happily follow you. Very closely, too."

Anders winced.

Fenris stifled a sigh. "Are you here to eat or taunt the abomination?"

"I can do both." Zevran's arm snaked around Fenris' waist, steering him toward the galley's far door and the cabins beyond. "Or we can go to my cabin and I will concentrate on eating." He grinned toothily. "Among other things."

Fenris began to yield, anticipating a heated evening with the assassin, then spotted Anders already halfway out the door, headed back to the deck. So he resisted. "He will not eat unless forced," he explained, shrugging away Zevran's clinging grasp. "And he will not be much use if he collapses the moment we step on land."

"Feh. Mother Fenris again." Zevran glowered at Anders' back. "Fine. But I will not sit here and watch you tend to him." He retreated and stalked stiffly away, brushing past his confused countrymen.

Fenris stared after him and considered following. Zevran wouldn't go far, though. Fenris would ensure that Anders had the strength to survive their first day of travel and then go after the assassin. He could probably figure out some way to appease Zevran's irritation.

"Anders," he called instead, before Anders could disappear up the narrow stairs to the deck. "Sit down."

He didn't expect to spend much time in the galley, but the room quickly filled with the crew and he either had to join a table or suffer their jostling. Fenris found himself tucked between Anders and an elderly Antivan woman with a face like a tree knot. All down the table, the sailors joked among themselves and passed around a thick chowder, bread and yeasty brown ale. Fenris kept watch on Anders' plate, expecting to need to force the mage to shove food down his gullet, but the Antivan crone beat him to it.

"_Pescado_," she shouted, leaning across Fenris and rapping her gnarled knuckles against the table. "_Come tu_!" Her bony shoulder jostled the elf, as though she had no concept of personal space.

"_Si_, madam," Anders muttered, blanching until he resembled the chowder.

"What do they keep calling you?"

Anders held up a spoonful of white meat and let it plop back into his chowder. "Fish Belly," he said sadly.

Fenris barked a laugh. He clamped down on it, but only briefly. He would go to Zevran for the night, so he could chuckle at Anders' ridiculous plight. He could allow this much camaraderie.

/.\./.\

They talked long into the evening. Long enough for Anders to wonder if he was dreaming again, as weariness mingled with disbelief.

_But he hates me_, Anders thought, watching Fenris' lips move. _And he's supposed to be with Zevran and having exotic, elven sex. _Yet, here they sat, alone at the galley's long table. The Antivans had devoured their chowders and quickly departed for their own revelry, leaving the two travellers to some measure of privacy.

"The Fereldan king is a strong man," Fenris commented thoughtfully. "That nation will survive."

"Of course," Anders replied warmly. "Her people have been through so much, one little Viscount will be easy. If you'd like, I'll show you. Well. Once we're on land." He frowned and scratched the back of his head. "I know the crew doesn't like it when I perform magic on the ship. So, um, you ate at the king's table?"

"Not only that, but he championed me against the Orlesians." Here the elf smirked. "And the Grey Wardens. If I live through this, I will have to make another journey just to give the people I harmed a chance to take their revenge. I promised more duels than I can count."

"You'll live through this," Anders hurriedly interjected. "And I'll come with you. In case anyone manages to hit you."

"Unlikely."

The mage chuckled, his concern vanishing with the elf's arrogance. "Of course, there are probably more people wanting to take their vengeance from my skin." He had meant it as a humorous comment, but it came out heavy and serious. His memories were dark and uncertain, fogged by Justice, and he cringed when he wondered, _Just how many people?_ He pressed the sudden ache in his brow. Everything came in flashes of sensation, a background for Hawke's loving face and words.

"_Do this for me, Anders. I need you."_

"Abomination," Fenris said. He twisted on the bench and reached out, but didn't touch. His bare hand curled a few inches away from Anders' shoulder. "It is useless to think of it now."

"Is it?" Anders wondered. His stomach lurched, as though with the return of his sea sickness. "I can't remember them, Fenris. But I know that I destroyed so much. And even if... Even if I die tomorrow, if you get tired of me and throw me overboard or Zevran misplaces a knife between my shoulders, I should think of it." He sought out the elf's green eyes, searching for some understanding. "I should acknowledge it. I owe it to them. They suffered because of me."

"Then do you wish to know?" Fenris' dark face hardened. "I remember everything."

Anders flinched, but refused to look away. "I do," he murmured. "If you're willing to tell me."

"I will start with the Warden."

Fenris tossed back the last of his ale and began.

Anders wept for the Hero of Ferelden. He couldn't even imagine what it must have been like for the man, to have his friends turn on him. _Like what you did to Fenris_, he thought. That was one of the last, perfectly clear moments before Hawke's influence descended on him. Fenris' face, frozen in that moment of betrayal.

The elf continued relentlessly, listing the many occasions where Hawke used his two powerful Generals to expand his burning empire. Anders tried to remember, but he just heard Hawke, felt the Viscount's pleasure and love. Sometimes, too, Fenris had been there, pliant and affectionate, a different creature from the deeply scarred figure sitting before him.

"Enough," Anders finally had to beg. "I had friends in Amaranthine! One of them took my cat!" He crushed his bandana to his eyes, angrily soaking up the tears burning under the lids. Imagining Ser Pounce-a-lot in the violent inferno Fenris described tore his heart out.

Fenris fell silent. It was nearly worse than the even flow of his words. In the sudden quiet, Anders thought he could hear distant screams, desperate pleading.

"Maker," he coughed. "Enough." He pushed himself up and stumbled away, toward the stairs and the black night. He had some intention of going to the stern or bow for privacy, but he didn't make it. His numb feet carried him as far as the main mast and let him fall onto a coil of rope. He drew up his knees and hid his face.

_I killed my cat_, he thought. It was somehow worse than everything else. A cat doesn't understand politics and magic. A cat can't defend itself against a firestorm. A cat is a loving, scolding ball of fluff, claws and attitude. _Ser Pounce-a-lot. I am so sorry._

Anders didn't realize that Fenris had followed him until he lifted his head and spotted the elf sitting on the deck across from him. Shadows hid his expression. He sat very still.

_He's still here_, the mage thought with fear, regret and relief. Quickly followed by, _How can he just sit there and watch me? I destroyed everything good in the world. I'm the worst thing that ever lived. A monster. I killed my cat._

"I know," Fenris suddenly rumbled, as though he had heard Anders' thoughts. "I know this feeling. You must set it aside for now. Until we have set things right again."

Anders swallowed heavily. "Yes," he replied nasally. "You're right. Of course." He tried to laugh, but it came out choked. "I'll play pirate and hero."

"Is that what you call it?" There was a lifted eyebrow in the elf's question.

"Sometimes." Anders wiped the grit of tears out of his eyes. "I had to hold onto something. So I held onto that."

"Fish Belly," Fenris snickered.

"Shut up, elf. No one asked you." Anders was beginning to regret translating the nickname. Except that he had to fight a smile. "I can't brood like you do. Not for long, anyway. It gets really ugly really quickly."

"You get lonely."

Anders blinked, startled. "Well, I. I don't know. I guess so."

"And so you turn to whoever is around you and you try to join them."

That sounded like an accusation. Anders straightened and frowned. "That's bold. How would you know? Last I saw, you had the empathy of a rock."

Fenris snorted and shifted. "I had the opportunity to walk through your dreams, abomination. And then spent two days listening to your fever babbling. Whether I want to or not, I know you quite well."

"My dreams?" Fear drained the blood from Anders' face.

"It's how we woke you. You don't remember?"

"We?" Anders groaned and sank back. He thumped his head against the mast a few times before continuing. "Maker. How embarrassing."

"Zevran, Finn, Feynriel and myself," Fenris continued. "You were dreaming about the Circle. Sort of."

"Finn?" Zevran and Feynriel were, at least, either as depraved as Anders or somewhere far removed from his interest, but the name Finn sparked horrified recognition. "Do you mean Flora? From the Fereldan Circle?"

"The very same. He helped get you out. I left him in Nevarra City with Fawnley's butler. They were going to find a way out and back to Denerim." The elf paused. "I wonder, sometimes, if they made it out. That was a bad place for Finn."

"Wait. Fawnley? _Lord_ Fawnley? The one we escorted Marilyn to?" He lifted a hand. "No. Enough. I don't want to hear anymore. Not tonight. I don't think my head can handle it."

After a beat, Fenris nodded his pale head. "It is late. And tomorrow will be the first of many difficult days."

Anders groaned pathetically, both at the thought of the journey and the idea of tossing around on his hard bunk. He would rather keep company with the elf through the night than submit himself to the inevitable nightmares. Fenris definitely had better places to be, though. "I'm sure Zevran is waiting for you."

Fenris shook his head. "Perhaps. Or he might be with Isabela already."

"No," Anders blurted immediately. "You're worth waiting for."

Frigid silence stretched between them.

"I'm sorry. That was, um, bold. Right. Well." Anders cleared his throat, stood and brushed himself off. "Off to my bunk. Close my eyes and wait for morning. Listen to the mutters of the Archdemon and Justice's laments. I never thought a Fade spirit could feel guilt."

"He ran me through," Fenris said flatly.

Anders stopped, his babbling cut short. "Oh."

"But you healed me," the elf continued. "That is when you woke."

He could think of no good response to that. "Of course," Anders finally murmured.

They stared at each other.

"I should go," Anders said. He could at least lie on his back for a while, until the sun rose. "Thank you, Fenris."

"For what?"

"For knowing me." He regarded Fenris, who cut such a small figure without his weapon and axe. _How can I be lonely, knowing that you're here? Knowing that you've seen all there is within me?_

_Of course, so has Finn apparently._

That was a disturbing thought.

"Good night," Anders added before he could dwell too long on his red-haired school mate.

"To you as well, abomination," Fenris replied levelly.

Anders turned and shambled away. He was tempted to call an aura to his hand to light his path, but didn't want to risk any further exposure to the superstitious sailors. Somehow, his mistake from the morning hadn't come back to bite him and he didn't want to push his luck. Instead, he navigated by the glow of the stern lamp, feeling his way when the shadows became too deep or deceptive.

The crew bunks hummed with the snores of the Antivan sailors. Anders lightly trailed his fingers along the wood to keep his balance in the darkness.

A hand snaked out of a bunk and grabbed his wrist.

Anders jumped and nearly cried out, smothering the reaction with his bandana. Heart and stomach hammering together, he peered down at the faint glisten of eyes and the dark hand against his own pale skin.

"_Pescado_," came a whisper, a youthful male voice. "_Bella pescado_. Here. There is a place here with me."

_Handsome fish?_ Anders struggled to translate. _What?_

The hand tugged him closer and a piece of the shadows in the bunk detached, resolving into Anders' young translator. A wiry arm went around the mage's waist and soft, warm lips moved against the skin under Anders' navel. The youth brought Anders' hand to his own soft black curls.

"A reward for you," he whispered, hot breath like water to Anders' parched skin.

Goosebumps erupted all over Anders' body. He shivered and reflexively clutched at the Antivan's hair, nearly bowing over the caress of his eager mouth.

Then he realized what he was doing.

"Wait," he breathed. "Stop." As gently as he could, Anders pushed the boy's head away. "No."

"_Bella_, _bella_," the youth whispered. He ran his fingernails up Anders' back and gripped the mage at the waist. He pulled again, fingers digging into the flesh.

Anders ignored his shivers and pushed harder. "No," he snapped more loudly. "Stop it." He wrenched away.

For a moment, Anders thought the Antivan wouldn't give up. Then the youth sighed and released him. He murmured something that Anders didn't catch and rustled back into the depths of his bunk.

Anders continued shakily to his own.

_Just what I need_, he bemoaned, staring into the darkness. Bad enough that his conversation with Fenris gave him hope for rebuilding a friendship, if nothing more, but the Antivan had sparked a rather hard, rather distracting ache between his legs. _Another reason to lose sleep._


	37. Chapter 35

**Author's Note:** In which our party begins their trek across Tevinter and Anders begins to build himself anew.

Thank you to the inestimable Paula, without whom this story would have dissolved into a string of fight scenes, in-game jokes and politics.

**Warnings:** .Angst. Also the author exploring ideas of how Anders would react in certain situations, with events that really have almost no impact on the story itself. I just like to play.

**Playlist Recommendations:**

Two Steps From Hell

The A Team – Ed Sheeran

Wicked Game – Chris Isaac

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty-five**

They stepped from the _Island Queen's _gangway to the rough dock in the Caimen Brea harbour and Anders immediately remembered, _Oh yes, this is what Tevinter is like._ Eyes, dozens of pairs, stared past him at the two heavily armed elves.

"I feel that we will get a lot of practice between here and Vol Dorma," Zevran commented quietly.

"It is not worth it," Fenris replied. "There are so many dense skulls waiting to dull your knives, we would spend all our time sharpening them."

Anders hid his smile at the elves' dark humour, knowing that Zevran didn't appreciate anything but depression on his face. He didn't want to provoke the assassin any more than he did merely by existing, and cause a fissure between Fenris and the man who made him so happy. Bad enough that Fenris had wasted so much of his night with Anders while Zevran awaited him.

_Not that I minded_, Anders pondered wistfully. That long conversation had done much to clarify his thoughts, as painful as it had been. Surprisingly, he woke this morning somehow refreshed, perhaps even cleansed, as though confessing his fears and guilt to Fenris purged him of it. Now, in the clear morning light, he looked on Fenris with as much of a desire to keep him safe and content, as he did with desire for the elf himself. Despite how it pained him to see Fenris happy with someone else.

Ahead of them, Isabela negotiated the docking price with the harbour master, heaving her large, supple assets under his nose to convince him that her ship deserved a lower price and better service. Eventually, the man stuttered over an agreement, stamped her papers without taking his eyes off her chest, and allowed the pirate and her crew to tie off.

"One more thing, love," Isabela said before the harbour master made his stumbling way back to his office. "Where's the best market for horse flesh?"

Following his directions, with a half dozen of her meanest Antivans at their backs, they wound through the tidy streets from the harbour to the northernmost market. Again, Anders felt the heat of resentful stares at Zevran and Fenris. They stood out distinctly, drawing human ire and elven jealousy, as though they were as much abominations as Anders himself.

The noisy market carpeted a wide square otherwise dominated by a massive Old God statue. At the foot of the statue, iron cages held emaciated prisoners—Caimen Brea's thieves and murderers. Anders averted his gaze, all too aware that only one out of the many figures was human. Isabela led them to one side of the square, to the semi-permanent stalls and corrals that contained livestock. Too late, Anders realized that this would take them directly past the Imperium's other form of livestock.

Dull-eyed, waxen-skinned elves filled the corners of their pens, sitting in clumps like leaves blown in by the wind. One or two Dalish hunters paced back and forth, back and forth, their spirits undaunted despite the abuse to their faces and bodies. Prospective buyers stood at the edges of the pens, discussing the virtues of this or that specimen, the uses they could fill, their value versus their upkeep.

Anders felt guilty, stabs of it in his stomach and chest, simply for being a human mage. _Fenris escaped this_, he reminded himself. _And I sold him back into it. I _should_ feel guilt._

Discretely, he cast a glance back toward Fenris and found him staring straight ahead, his features twisted into a stony grimace. Beside him, Zevran glared from one side of their path to the other, and Anders caught the assassin's hands hovering near his knives.

_This is wrong, all of it is wrong._ Justice shifted and took notice, looking beyond his myopic obsession with his own failures to the terrible circumstances they slogged through. The place stank of fear, hopelessness and decay. It had to stop. It had to end. _I can end this. That power lies within me._

For a moment, anger and injustice blinded him. He called heat into his palm, ready to cast it out and wipe this place off the face of Thedas with so much violence that the world would tremble and know: This is evil and it will be punished.

The sensation triggered a memory of other cities, of another voice calling him to rain down fire and punishment. He hurriedly quelled the desire, shaking his head and rubbing eyes that suddenly stung, as though from smoke.

_No. No, not again. It is not your choice to make._

He tried to banish the thoughts, but the pens of helpless elves and the humans swollen with greed crowded around him, drowning out his attempts at reason. Finally, he slowed his step and latched onto the only solid, quiet presence he could find.

"I can't bear this," he murmured to Fenris, falling in on the side opposite Zevran. "Justice wants me to destroy it all."

Fenris' expression changed only minutely, taking on an aspect of narrow-eyed speculation as he briefly appraised the mage. "I am tempted to agree," he admitted. "But that will not actually help matters."

"It will help," Zevran interjected sarcastically. "These people will feel no pain when they are little more than ashes."

Anders flinched. "I know. These innocents would be caught. That's why I don't want to do it."

"That never stopped you and your vengeance before," Fenris pointed out. The words hurt, but the tone seemed more thoughtful than challenging. Fenris stared at him, his hard, green eyes tracing over Anders' face, as though searching for something.

"I may not be as blind as I once was," Anders replied quietly. "I catch the occasional glimpse of reality through the illusions of justice and revenge. I think I can safely say that destruction isn't entirely adequate to encourage social and political change."

"That is where assassination comes in." Zevran grinned wickedly. "There is no greater encouragement for political change."

"Ah, enlightenment," Fenris sighed. He shook his head and regarded Anders. "We will keep Hawke from destroying the world, abomination, and then think about changing it."

"Yes." Anders breathed the word, mostly to himself. Fenris' logic rang true, chasing away the destructive need, at least for the moment. "Yes, of course."

With Isabela doing most of the talking, much to Anders' relief, they found six hardy mounts and enough supplies to last them for weeks. She paid with Antivan coin, then sent her crew back to the ship with a long list of instructions and what was left of her purse.

"Buy some elves with whatever's left over," she ordered lastly. "The weakest and sickest. We can save at least a few of the poor sods from blood magic and the glue factory."

"She is a gracious and merciful queen," Zevran commented warmly.

"We'll see," Isabela replied, lifting a brow. "If they can't find jobs, they might not thank me."

"Then Antiva has gained herself some more beggars." The assassin shrugged with a jingle. "Can we ever have enough?"

"Better to beg as a free man than live in luxury as a slave." Fenris glowered into the distance, his gaze focused on the past. "I know that well enough. Thank you, Isabela." His expression softened as he regarded the pirate.

"My pleasure. Though, if you'd really like to thank me..." She trailed off, eyebrows lifting suggestively.

As the sun sank toward the west and the distant humps of forested foothills, the party passed under Caimen Brea's northern gates and directed their mounts onto the first leg of the Imperium's roads.

"We ride hard," Fenris began, urging his beast forward. "Hawke may be delayed, but not for long."

"I can divine where he is," Anders offered. "I'll need a few hours and some ingredients, but we would know his movements."

"What ingredients?"

"Eh, basic things. A map, a silver bowl, tea, a crystal, silver chain, strong alcohol. The usual."

Fenris nodded shortly. "Very well. If we stop in one place for that long, you can work your spell."

The fact that Fenris hadn't hesitated before agreeing brought warmth to Anders' heart. He smiled happily. "Good. I think it might help."

Zevran snorted. "That is yet to be seen, abomination." He sidled his mount closer. "One last thing. I have a gift for you."

Anders turned, surprised and briefly excited at the hope of reconciliation. "What—?"

Pain split across his face and struck deep into his head. He lost his grip on his saddle, felt a moment of panicked vertigo, then slammed shoulder first into the road.

He lay in a groaning heap, trying to catch his breath and clear the ringing from his skull. When the darkness faded from his eyes, he brought his hand down from his nose and saw a smear of blood in his palm. His face throbbed.

"Fenris may have forgiven you, but I have not." Zevran sat his horse, glowering down at him. "Until the time comes to end your life, I will give you gifts instead. I have many for you." He turned his horse and trotted ahead, a golden figure in the evening sun. Over his shoulder, he called, "That was only the first!"

Anders pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulder and wincing as more and more aches leapt to his attention. He blearily looked about for his horse and hurried toward the mare before he realized that Fenris held her reins, preventing her from running off.

"You could heal yourself," Fenris rumbled as Anders clung to the saddle and tried to breathe past his nausea.

"Why would I?" Anders asked against the warm leather. Gritting his teeth against the agony in his shoulder, he pulled himself up. "A broken nose is the least of what I deserve."

Fenris searched his face again, his expression inscrutable. Anders submitted to the stare, resisting the urge to hide his bloodied and swollen nose. Then he tossed the reins back into Anders' hands and turned away.

/.\./.\

Hawke stared into the sandstorm howling its rage only yards away from his officers' encampment, erected on the southern edge of the Silent Plains. His face bore no expression beyond cruel intensity, his dark eyes narrowed and his lip lifted in the slightest sneer. Next to him, General Alexander maintained a strong barrier against the storm with the help of three mages barely clinging to life. On his other side, General Malice deftly poured wine into two glasses. She passed one up to the Viscount.

"We lost twenty regiments at least," she commented lightly, as though talking about a card game. "And most of the undead forerunners."

Hawke grunted. "They'll claw themselves out. Now that they're awake, nothing will keep them buried for long. What of the Magisters? How many did they lose?"

"They sent ten infantry, two mounted, and two of their covens. I think I saw a few of the bastards themselves out there in person, too."

"The storm may have caught them off guard and flayed them for me. At the very least, it took a chunk out of their army." Hawke scratched his beard and sighed. "Takes a bit of the fun out of it." He glanced to General Alexander. "Tell me again why you didn't see this coming."

"It is...no natural storm, lord." Alexander replied, his voice strained. The barrier around their camp crackled. He jumped and stood straighter. One of his mages cried out and collapsed. "It was sent."

"Obviously," Hawke snorted. "I can taste Anders on the Blighted wind. But why did you fail to catch that scent?"

"I..." The barrier crackled again. Alexander paled. "I scried the weather over the desert, but he sent it...a...after. Lord, may I recommend a retreat?"

"You may recommend it," Hawke murmured. His dark eye glittered with amusement as he regarded his mage General. Turning back to Malice, he asked, "I suppose this means the Tevinters won't cross. Not through this."

"No, lord. They'll wait on the other side for it to finish, most like."

"And all that work, softening up Nevarra and the Free Marches for them." He smirked at his dwarven General. "At least it was fun."

"And excellent practice, lord."

The barrier crackled loudly and shrank by a few feet before Alexander, groaning and slaying another of his apprentices, strengthened it against the wind.

"Are you having trouble, Alexander?" Hawke purred, sipping his wine.

"N-no, lord."

"Anders would have dispelled the entire storm by now."

Alexander's jaw bulged as he grit his teeth. "Anders would be a burnt out husk by now," he spat. "He's just a walking hole in the Fade." His barrier expanded as he growled the words.

Hawke chuckled warmly. "Jealousy strengthens you." He stared into the storm again. "Always remember how much I would rather have Anders by my side. Remember how inferior you are."

Alexander's last apprentice shrieked and died, drained of her magic and her life. Alexander angrily straightened and pushed the barrier even further, until they could see the remains of some unfortunate human infantryman buried in the sand.

Hawke drained his glass and tossed it aside. "Time is short. We will not retreat. The undead will march through the storm well enough. Imagine the Tevinters' surprise when my dark army lurches out of the sand." He laughed, shaking his head at the thought.

"Lord, may I request more apprentices?" Alexander asked.

"You may." Hawke jerked his chin over his shoulder. "Take all of them. We won't need them for much longer. We regroup tonight and leave in the morning." To Malice, he ordered, "Gather our best. Ready some wagons, no more than Alexander's inferior barrier can protect."

"Lord." Malice turned and started away.

She stopped.

Her head lifted. Her normal eye pointed forward, but her lyrium eye began to roll. It rolled backward, then sideways, and then it stopped, staring directly upward.

"Lord," she said again. "We are being observed."

Hawke folded his arms, shifted his weight to cock a hip out, and tilted his head back. His eyes, once a warm brown, had become a solid, oily black. He glared at the obscured sky. "I know," he murmured. Then, in a mere whisper, he added, "I miss you, Anders. Come back to me and I'll give you the world."

/.\./.\

Anders gasped and jolted with such force that his scrying bowl upended, splashing herb-infused liquor all over the map.

"My map!" Isabela cried, diving forward to rescue it.

"My whiskey," Zevran added, frowning at the puddle expanding over the earthen floor of their shelter. He lifted a pack out of the way of a finger of liquor as more of the clear fluid dripped from Isabela's sodden map.

"Sorry," Anders breathed, his chest and throat tight. He couldn't chase the image of Hawke's eyes—terrible, black eyes—out of his mind. They had stared directly at him, and Hawke had smiled and whispered such a sweet entreaty... He lifted a shaking hand to his face, wiping the cold sweat from his brow and upper lip.

"Can't even hang it out to dry," Isabela complained, shaking her map. "It's raining fit to drown a fish. And now I'll want a drink whenever I plan a route."

"You always want a drink anyway," Fenris remarked dryly. He sat next to Zevran, cross-legged and straight-backed, his expression inscrutable.

Anders looked to the Tevinter elf, hoping to find...something. Sympathy. Understanding. Some kind of commiseration. They had all seen Hawke's cold evil, but only Fenris would understand what it felt to be touched by it, to feel it under the skin, wrapped around the beating heart.

Fenris met Anders' anxious gaze for a mere heartbeat before he turned his face away. "At least the whiskey will keep the ants away," he said.

"True," Zevran sighed. "I would rather drink it, though, than waste it on the earth. You owe me a bottle, abomination."

Anders nodded jerkily. He tried to make a witty response, something to both amuse and appease the assassin, but when he opened his mouth no sound emerged. He flushed, angry and embarrassed and frightened, and stumbled to his feet. He had to duck to fit under the sloped tent wall. Suddenly, the tent seemed to close in on him. The heat and smoke from the small fire near the entrance burned his eyes and throat. The stink of the spilled whiskey turned his stomach. The glares of his companions made him small, worthless, hated.

_"I will give you the world."_

But Hawke, black-eyed and evil not-Hawke, would give him the world.

_And that makes me even more of a monster._

Choking on a lump of emotion, Anders pushed past their low fire and out into the storm.

The rain hammered down at him, immediately plastering his hair to his skull and beading on his oiled coat. Eyes closed, he lifted his face to it, savouring the cool touch and the obliterating force on his skin. Here, in the wet darkness, his thoughts soon dissolved into the simple physical experience of the storm, chasing the image of not-Hawke out of his mind.

After some minutes of this, Anders retreated to the lean-to they had erected for their horses, using a faint aura to find it. After two days of hard riding, the beasts stood in weary silence. They barely wuffled at his approach, even when he wedged in between them to get out of the rain.

From this calm place, Anders could consider what he had learned with a clear mind.

The storm worked, but not completely. Hawke's undead army would still forge a path for the Viscount through the Imperium. Chances were good that the Tevinter Magisters, or at least some of them, would side with the Viscount. If they let him pass, he would allow them to strike at Nevarra and the Free Marches. Anders could easily imagine that a number of young Tevinter mages were eager to carve out their own land and legend from the suffering southern nations.

_Try not to think of them_, he told himself. _I did what I could. Perhaps the storm will rage long enough that Nevarra, the Marches and Kirkwall will stabilize before Tevinter strikes.  
_  
This may have been wishful thinking, but Anders clung to it. He had to believe that there was something left worth fighting for. Something to rescue from Hawke's hunger.

His mare snorted. Anders stroked her neck and turned to see what had alarmed her. A piece of the night detached from the rest and Fenris paced into the small shelter. Anders' faint aura glowed green in Fenris' sodden hair and huge-pupiled eyes, glimmering off of his armour.

"Zevran thinks you are going to run back to Hawke," Fenris rumbled, his voice as low and rough as the rain on the canvas shelter. He gently scratched Anders' mare.

"Does he?" Anders replied hollowly.

Fenris stared over the mare's arched neck, his claws idly combing her mane. His hard expression, or what little Anders could see of it, silently demanded an explanation.

"I have to admit," Anders began slowly, "the temptation is there. I was happy with Hawke, living in that dream."

Fenris' hand stilled.

"And here I have only pain, grief, guilt and...and loss." He turned his head, overwhelmed by the sight of Fenris and the memory of a deeper relationship. "But I won't go back," he asserted quietly. "I won't run. I owe you that much. I owe myself that much."

"That is what I thought," Fenris commented after a moment. "And I... Am glad. I do not want to face him alone."

"Neither do I." Anders wanted so badly to touch Fenris' hand, if only for the comfort of knowing the Tevinter stood with him. He fought the inclination, knowing Fenris would not appreciate the gesture.

Fenris patted the mare's shoulder and shook his pale head. "You should come in from the rain. A sick mage is worse than no mage at all. And once the rain has passed, we ride again."

"As you wish, mesere."

Fenris' answering snort and half-smile chased most of the chill away.

/.\./.\

The party tore north across the Imperium, following the narrow roads which, despite the weeds and encroaching forests, allowed them to cover great distances whenever the light and their mounts permitted it. They stopped only to rest the beasts or when the weather fouled and forced them to take shelter under hastily strung canvas.

On one such evening, five nights after leaving Caimen Brea, they found a small town, a mere crossroads with a tiny Chantry on one side and an inn on the other. Fenris directed his horse toward the bulk of the inn, barely visible as a few specks of light through the barrage of wind and rain. In the meagre protection of the stable yard, they dismounted.

Two androgynous young elves slipped out of the darkness to take the horses. They shivered with cold, their eyes wide and shining, too much pale skin showing under too little clothing.

"Thank you," Anders uttered wearily as he passed his reins over. As always, his voice drew Fenris' attention. He watched the mage dipping into his coat for coins. "Here," he began.

"Don't." Fenris reached back and caught his wrist before he could pass over the money.

Anders frowned. "What? Why? Look at them!"

"Their master will only take it from them." Fenris jerked his chin at the two thin, trembling figures. The smaller one nearly cowered behind Anders' horse, his frightened gaze intent on the mage's startled expression. Fenris could read the terror in his eyes, knew that he expected Anders to smite Fenris, and him, down for his apparent disobedience, for daring to physically assault a human. "Give them nothing of value, nothing that can be stolen."

"Right," Anders agreed slowly. "Right. Sorry."

Fenris released his arm and strode away to join Zevran and Isabela at the inn door.

For all his savvy awareness of the Imperium's social status quo, in his fatigue Fenris forgot to wait. The wet chill had sunk into his flesh, so he eagerly pushed through the door to lead his companions into the light and warmth. He realized his mistake when two dozen Tevinters lifted their heads to stare and two dozen hands found weapons.

Fenris paused, mind racing as he scrabbled for something to say or do.

Then Zevran shoved him from behind, crowding in toward the heat. His armour and the hilts of his blades gleamed in the lamp light as he shook his head with enough vigour to spatter rain water on the nearest table. "Wetter than a whore in the morning. A real bed will be—"

He cut off, grunting as he deflected the swing of a club. The farmer wielding it snarled and swung again, moments before the rest of his table surged up and attacked the two elves.

"Hah!" Zevran danced sideways, keeping his back to the wall, his narrow features suffused in glee. "Finally! You will taste steel, dogs!"

_This is not the way to a hot meal and a warm bed_, Fenris thought woefully. He ducked the swing of an axe and cracked a gauntleted fist into his attacker's jaw while the farmer tried to liberate his weapon from a support post. He spotted a dagger slicing in from the side and phased part of his torso, letting it pass through harmlessly. A soldier tackled from his other side; Fenris gripped the man's wrist and shoulder and sent him spinning into a merchant.

"They're well-trained," laughed someone further back in the crowd. "Must be expensive! Get some ropes, Gavis! We'll split the finder's fee!"

The man with the dagger, still looking at his weapon with a stunned expression on his face, called back, "I don't know. I don't know about this."

"There's only two of them!"

"Get the filthy knife-ears!"

"Bring 'em down!"

"Is that _lyrium_?! Bloody hell!"

Fenris managed to throw a rather large specimen of a farmer into a table, sending a group of his cohorts flying. He drew his axe, realizing that their only way out of this was on a river of blood, that no Tevinter would allow them to simply walk away.

He felt a prickling rush of magic over his skin an instant before the dirty inn floor flashed. Bright arcane runes burned into existence in a large circle encompassing the entire common room. As one, the Tevinters froze, paralysed. Fenris, about to swing Bloom into a merchant's skull, stayed his hand.

In the sudden silence, the creak of the door seemed unnaturally loud. Fenris and Zevran, the assassin with a blade to a pale-faced soldier's throat, turned.

Anders, his chin lifted, his expression cold and hard, strode in. "Would someone," he began, his voice pitched low, "tell me why I shouldn't have you all skinned?"

The men nearest Fenris whimpered, but not a one could move more than their widened eyes.

"Well, then," Anders murmured, barely above a whisper. He lifted a hand. Indigo electricity crackled around his fingers, up his arm, and flickered through his eyes. "Let's get started."

Briefly, Fenris felt shock that this cruel version of Anders had hidden inside the desperate shell of the man. Even Zevran eyed the mage with wary scrutiny.

A high-pitched cry of "No!" came from an open door at the back. A woman sagged in the doorway, her hands clasped in supplication. "Don't kill them, lord! Please! They thought your elves were runaways!"

"Runaways," Anders repeated dangerously. The light on the floor and in his eyes brightened as he barked a laugh. "Hardly. Look at them. Do you think they must run from anything?"

"N-no, lord. We didn't know. Please!" She fell to her knees, sobbing.

Anders paced deeper into the common room, considering each frozen Tevinter as he passed. He gave no indication that the continued paralysis glyph cost his strength, though Fenris could feel the hum of magic, could sense how the Fade drew nearer, lured by the powerful mage.

"What will you do to repay us?" he asked. He stopped in front of the one man wearing an apron over his corpulence, a bundle of ropes hanging from his hands. "I expect meals. A bed. Baths. If you cannot provide, then I will kill you and tack your remains to the walls as a warning to other imbecile innkeepers. Is that clear?" He let his hand, wreathed in electricity, drift close to the man's face.

The Tevinter released a gasp and crumpled to the floor. "Yes! Yes, lord! A thousand apologies! A million! We had no idea they were yours! All of our service is yours. Command me, lord, and I will obey!"

Anders nodded. "Of course you will." He looked around the room. When his gaze passed over Fenris, he winked. "To the rest of you," he added, "I suggest you leave." He snapped his fingers. The glow of the glyph vanished, though the runes remained, scorched into the wood.

Moments later, the inn sat empty.

Later, when the four travellers had eaten their fill in the deserted common room, they retired to their private sitting room and discussed their next move.

"We should avoid the highway," Fenris said, considering the thick white coil across their whiskey-scented map.

"It might cut a day from our journey," Anders returned. He leaned back in his chair, rolling a small brass ring between his fingers. "Every road we find out here is a blessing. It's luck. I don't think we can rely on that to take us all the way to Vol Dorma."

"The highway means patrols," Fenris reminded him. "Patrols with mages of their own and soldiers who know the difference between a Fereldan Circle mage and a Magister." He nodded toward the bulk of the inn. "_This_ was luck. Running into the Imperium's inbred hicks."

"I like to think there may have been a smidgeon of skill involved as well." Anders smiled faintly, keeping his gaze locked on the ring. "We survived and got our room and board for free. What more could we ask for?"

"I would have liked more blood," Zevran muttered. "You should not have interfered. These fools deserved our blades, not our mercy."

"And how quick a journey would we have if the Magisters caught wind of us? Could we go fast or far with the army dogging us?"

Zevran frowned.

"He makes a valid point," Fenris admitted, nodding to the assassin. "Though I wish the same. These are cruel and stupid people; they should be ended. But discretion may be the wiser course. For now."

"Feh." Zevran abruptly stood and strode to the suite's cabinet. "For now." He retrieved a bottle of something, examined it critically, and began digging the cork out.

"Your thoughts, Isabela?" Fenris asked, glancing toward the pirate.

Isabela smiled like a contented cat and shrugged. "I'm happy that I'm not the captain of this mission. You know my blades are yours, Fenris. Any treasure we find, on the other hand...that's debatable."

Fenris chuckled. "You can have it. I want nothing from this tainted place."

"Nothing but revenge," Zevran interjected. His cork emerged with a loud _pop!_ He sniffed at the contents, sighed his satisfaction, and swallowed a long draught.

"Is it revenge?" Anders asked. He finally looked away from his ring to consider Fenris thoughtfully. "Or is it mercy? I keep feeling that Hawke is in there somewhere. Or, perhaps, elsewhere. And that we may be the only ones who can stop him from doing these terrible things."

"Definitely vengeance." Zevran sauntered back to their circle of chairs and perched on the arm of Fenris'. He offered the bottle to Fenris, but his dark leer remained on Anders. "The beast has much to atone for. And he is not the only one."

As he did whenever Zevran attacked, Anders only bowed his blond head and accepted it.

Fenris stifled the urge to say something in Anders' defence. Thus far, the mage had been a staunch ally, uncomplaining, quick to cast spells of protection and healing. If anything, he made a better companion now than he had in Kirkwall, with none of the secretiveness, none of the caterwauling on mage rights, and none of the jealous clinging to Hawke. He seemed...broken, but rebuilding. Building himself anew.

Not for the first time, Fenris wondered what the last months had been like for the mage. What his own actions had done to him. If Fenris had had to choose between two lovers and chosen wrong, if his error then resulted in such violence, would he have survived? Or would he have given in and let himself disappear under Hawke's will?

_He nearly did, though_, he reminded himself. _He nearly dissolved. Until you woke him. And now he is your ally._ He recalled their conversation after Anders' scrying, and Anders' admittance that Hawke's offer had tempted him. If the mage contemplated rejoining Hawke, would he admit to the temptation? Unlikely.

Fenris mulled this over as he drank and felt discomfiture at his conclusions. He did not want to trust the mage, but his reasons not to dwindled the longer they travelled.

He cleared his throat. "So we avoid the highway," he declared.

"And hope for good roads," Anders replied quietly. He glanced up, then dropped his gaze back to his ring. "As you wish."

Fenris pressed his lips together, abruptly irritated and not entirely sure why. _Do not oblige me, abomination! Do not appease me!_ Anders' obeisance made him feel like a tyrant, like he had made a foolish choice but was too much of a bully to argue against.

As though echoing his internal irritation, his skin began to itch. He scratched his ribs, the back of his neck, and his chin, and then glowered more heatedly at Anders. "You are doing magic," he accused.

Anders jumped guiltily. "A little bit," he demurred. "Only a small protective enchantment." He focused on the ring. His lips moved and the brass briefly glowed with more colour than the lamps would warrant.

Fenris scowled, jerked upright and stalked toward his own room, scratching his lower back. "Get some rest," he called over his shoulder. "We leave at first light." Without waiting for an answer, he firmly closed his door on his companions.

The frightened innkeeper had given them the best suite in the house; Fenris' room had every luxury available in the backwoods of Tevinter, from the silk sheets on the canopied bed to the gleaming wood of the furniture to the basin of water and collection of soaps and perfumes. He glanced over them blandly, his only enjoyment coming from the strong belief that no elf had ever been the room's master before.

A knock sounded on his door. Fenris' brow twitched in a frown. He didn't want to answer; he felt like he needed years of quiet contemplation to sort through the havoc of his mind.

The knock came again.

Sighing, Fenris drank and yielded. He swung the door open enough to see Zevran's casual stance and easy smile.

"_Amore_," the assassin said, nodding toward Fenris' hand, "you brought my drink with you."

Blinking, Fenris glanced down. "Oh." He shook it, surprised to find it half-empty already.

"I thought it may have been an invitation." Zevran edged closer. "So I brought another one." He lifted a second bottle, even dustier than the first, but apparently the same vintage of rich red wine.

Fenris considered it, considered Zevran's handsome features and sly smile. He swallowed heavily and enjoyed the sensation as his body quickened to the gleam in Zevran's eye. Those nights of cold abstinence in their rugged tent suddenly seemed a small eternity, and Fenris' desire for quiet contemplation swiftly reversed. He needed heat, friction, pressure and smooth, spicy skin.

So he nodded shortly and allowed the assassin entry, carefully not letting his gaze stray past the door to the suite proper.

/.\./.\

Grey predawn found Anders in the sodden courtyard, engaged in a conversation with the two elven children that mostly involved pantomime. They spoke a kind of pidgen-Arcanum, when they spoke at all. Mostly, they said "mesere" and "thankyouyesserah," which Anders found somewhat disconcerting.

"Always wear this," he said to them, mostly focusing on the girl. She seemed older, her expression seemed to hold a stronger edge of comprehension. He held one of his two rings up. It didn't look like much, made of tarnished brass, but magic trembled in its fibres. "It will keep you healthy. Well, healthier. Protect you from extremes of heat and cold. Help you heal faster. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded tentatively. "Thankyouyesserah?"

Anders' shoulders sagged. "You don't understand."

"Mesere?"

He drew in a breath. This wouldn't be so difficult, but he wanted to ensure that they didn't let anyone else see them. It would take only a minor mage to notice that they bore magical enchantment. "I want you to wear them on your feet," he said slowly, pointing at his own boots. "Because of the protection. Yes?"

The girl immediately dropped to her knees, disregarding the wet mud, and reached for Anders' feet.

"N-no!" Anders danced back. "Not my feet!"

"Mesere?" The girl snatched her hands back as though burned. She practically trembled as she stared up at him, her eyes huge and pointed face pale, her expression stricken.

"Maker," Anders sighed. He cast a glance toward the inn, ensuring the windows remained shuttered, and crouched down. "They're for your feet, little one." He reached out for her slender foot. She and the boy wore thin slippers, the soles as scarred as their spirits. He sent up a brief prayer of thanks that they, at least, didn't go barefoot.

When he grasped her ankle, she stiffened and nearly pulled away. Then she made a soft, helpless noise and he could feel her force herself to relax. She slumped into the mud, lying back on her elbows.

Anders nearly choked on his horror. "Oh, little child," he murmured. "No. No." He worked hurriedly, desperate to banish her expression of stony despair. With a deft touch, he slid her slipper off and fit the brass ring over her second toe. "There," he said as he replaced the garment. "That's all. Do you feel different?" He stood, straightened his coat, and held out his hand to her. When she hesitated, he nodded encouragingly. Finally, she placed her thin fingers in his palm.

He concentrated and felt the faint hum of his own protective spells limning her fragile skin. As he pulled her to her feet, he allowed himself a small sense of satisfaction. _And Fenris told me not to give them anything. If he could see me now._ Immediately following the thought came an image of Fenris and Zevran, no doubt wound together and deeply asleep.

Anders shook his head, dispelling the depressing thought. He had more important things to worry about. He smiled at the little elven boy. "This one is for you," he said, holding out a twist of copper he had begged from Isabela. He pointed at the child's foot. "Put it on. Never take it off."

The knowledge that he had helped those innocents bolstered him against the blow when Fenris and Zevran came down the stairs to the common room, deep in some intimate discussion, their heads close together. Anders lifted his gaze to them and suffered a deep pang of regret, worse than the old bitterness of seeing Hawke and Fenris together. At that time, thinking Fenris a murdering, psychotic man, Anders could indulge in his hatred as much as he indulged in his pining for Hawke. Now, though, he had no one to despise but himself, and nothing to indulge in but memories of a passionate flame that burned brighter than his longing for Hawke ever had.

He dropped his attention back to the breakfast the elven children had brought, trying to escape those heated memories. The thick honey and warm scones, though, lost their flavour, and he could only push them away.

"Mesere?" the elven girl asked softly, appearing at his elbow and pointedly staring at his plate.

Anders smiled gently. "It was very good," he told her, knowing she could understand none of it. "But I lost my appetite." He flicked it toward her. "You can have it."

She seemed to catch some of his meaning here, for she turned and nodded toward the door to the kitchen.

Of course, her masters would not allow her to indulge.

_And aren't I an all-powerful Magister?_ He glared toward the kitchen. _Magic has brought me nothing but trouble, but, by Andraste's chest freckles, I can do someone some good._ So thinking, he reached out, snagged the girl around the waist, and pulled her onto his knee.

Again, she resisted at first, then he felt her melt into submission.

"Just eat the scones," he muttered next to her delicate ear, hoping it looked intimate enough not to raise questions. "Then you're free to go." He twitched the plate closer to her.

In the shelter of their bowed heads, the girl ate in quick, tidy bites, until the plate sat empty. She dabbed her mouth with a ratty handkerchief that lived in her sleeve, then glanced with obvious embarrassment toward him. He chuckled and released her.

With renewed confidence, Anders turned to find his companions. They sat at a corner table, well away from him, now with Isabela in their midst. The elven boy stood near them, waiting tensely on the balls of his feet. Anders studied them for a moment, caught in a sudden rush of nostalgia for the days when he could join them, and their other friends in Kirkwall, for a meal or a drink without these feelings of immense guilt and sadness.

_Those days are gone. You must move forward. Be stronger. Be better._

Fenris seemed to hear him. His green eyes flicked up from his plate and met Anders' blatant stare. The elf's hard expression became a challenge, like a mountain to climb or a river to cross, like he dared Anders to win his favour.

So Anders stood and drew near, determined not to flinch from his responsibilities.

"You like them young," Zevran drawled when Anders straddled the chair the elven boy brought for him.

"Always the healer," Fenris interrupted before Anders could even attempt an explanation. "I hope she remembers your kindness as a blessing, rather than a memory that makes all the pain that much worse."

Anders leaned away, unsure of how to take this. Was it praise or recrimination or simply a friendly reminder? At least he made it clear that he didn't believe Anders took his pleasure from children, which could be counted a blessing. "I want to make it better," he protested softly.

"Sometimes you cannot."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Believe what you would like. That is every man's right."

This echoed the conversation they had on the ship, but Fenris' tone made Anders feel lonely instead of understood. He wondered if it could be the presence of the others; perhaps Fenris did not want to understand him while Zevran looked on with his smug sneer. So he let the topic drop and consoled himself with the fact that, at the very least, Fenris hadn't accused him of molesting the child.

The children opened the shutters, allowing the silver dawn light to filter in from the east. The plump innkeeper and his wife blinked out at the party from the kitchen, perhaps wishing that the night's events had been a nightmare and nothing more, but faced with the reality of the two armed elves, a pirate wench and a human mage breaking their fasts.

Fenris gestured toward the elven boy and said something in Arcanum. The child bobbed once and hurried away. He snagged his sister as he passed her and the two disappeared out the front door.

"Finish up," Fenris told them, nodding at Isabela and Zevran's plates. "We ride."

"I do love it when you say such things," Zevran commented.

Fenris, instead of scowling as Anders had hoped, smirked slightly. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I'll wait outside," Anders muttered. He pushed away from the table and tromped back out to the courtyard.

Anders didn't need to wait long, fortunately for his flagging optimism. The children brought their mounts, ready for travel and docile, and Fenris led the two rogues out of the inn proper. Anders didn't look at them. He mounted and directed his mare out onto the road.

_We didn't pay for any of this_, he realized as he glanced about at the small village, wet and gleaming after the night's rain. _Not that it matters, but I hope we don't have to come back this way. _Briefly, he worried that the locals might send a highway patrol after them, but soothed himself with the thought that most of the Imperium's military still cluttered the northern edge of the Silent Plains.

Because he had nothing better to do, he urged his mount to the Chantry board, curious about what he might find. When he heard another horse behind him, he read aloud, "Someone has rats in their basement; there's an escaped slave at large, armed with a kitchen knife; and some pilgrims went missing west of here."

"We do not have time to waste on errands," Fenris rumbled.

Anders twisted in his saddle, surprised. He looked past Fenris to the inn, where Isabela and Zevran seemed to be arguing about something. "I'm aware," he said. "If we were with Hawke or the Warden, though, we would be able to do all of these jobs." He couldn't help a tiny smile, recalling Hawke's strange ability to do everything he set out to do, helping every poor soul along the way, without once missing an appointment.

"Hawke and the Warden are—were—different people from us," Fenris replied, his head tilting thoughtfully. "Where we floundered in life, directionless, making mistakes at every turn, they strove forward and saved the world." He sighed and frowned. "And now we must save Thedas from him."

"I'm sorry," Anders murmured, desperate to ease the sadness on the other man's face. He groaned a moment after. "Ah, flames, I said I'd stop saying that."

Fenris shook his head and his lip may have twitched. "I know," he said.

Anders' chest eased, some of the pain leaking away. "Yes you do," he agreed. "And for that I thank you."


	38. Chapter 36

**Author's Note: **

In which there are battles, magic, clues, the rekindled flames of...something. And a Haunted Forest. Because every game worth its salt has a Haunted Forest. Next time: Cleverness, Grey Wardens, and Isabela has the key to everything.

The closer we get to the end, the more my feet drag. But the journey goes on...one word at a time.

Thank you, Paula, for ensuring that I make sense!

**Disclaimer:** These gorgeous men and woman belong to Bioware.

**Playlist Recommendations:**

Two Steps From Hell – Caradhras

Bon Jovi – You Give Love a Bad Name

Michael Jackson - Thriller

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty-six**

Halfway to Vol Dorma, with the thick forests of the western Imperium close around them and the heat of late summer a stifling blanket, they discovered that the Imperial soldiers in the nameless village inn hadn't forgotten the two elves and their powerful mage companion.

Fenris had barely slept that night, with Zevran twined around him. In his fatigue, he barely noticed the warning crackle of bush and dry forest floor.

In a calm, clear moment, Zevran shouted, "Behind!"

The whistle of arrows cut through the air.

Anders screamed.

Fenris whirled around, light flaring from his tattoos, power and anger surging through his body. He saw Anders, arrows tufting from his back and falling slowly from his horse. A riot of voices roared out of the trees, the slamming of feet, the clang of blade on shield. More arrows shrieked. He phased and they passed through him.

Thirty or more men in the uniforms of the Imperium poured onto the road, led by two robed mages, their tainted magic reeking of copper blood and fear. One sent a bolt of spirit energy crackling toward him.

Fenris got his feet under him, clinging precariously to his bucking horse, and dived forward, roaring, into the sea of glittering silver chain mail and deep burgundy that swelled between him and Anders.

He scythed through the brigade. The first handful fell before him like so much dead wood, their faces twisting in horror as they realized how helpless they were against him. He swung and Bloom carved a path of devastation through their flesh, followed by a fine mist of blood and streamers of viscera. War cries turned to pained screams. Some brave few tried to strike him, but they could not hit a warrior who walked the inbetween places; one with a foot in the Fade.

The rearmost blood mage shouted orders that became more frantic as Fenris closed the gap between them. She flung spears of fire and ice, and a cloud of miasma to weaken him; he scarcely noticed, beyond his building rage. He ghosted forward, bare feet gripping the blood-stained stones, and stunned the last half dozen soldiers clumped around her horse with a violent spirit pulse.

"I surrender!" she abruptly cried, throwing down her twisted staff.

He paused mid-step, startled.

Then she laughed. "Or perhaps not!" She pulled a heavily ornamented knife from her robe and slashed the air over her soldiers' heads. As one, their throats ruptured as though cut. They collapsed with a wretched gurgle. The mage called out and their blood rose in a cloud. The red mist tightened around her in a thick shield, protecting her as she began to cast.

His hair lifted, his skin crawled, he felt her rising power.

Fenris swore, glanced about, and spotted Anders, crumpled and motionless nearby. He sprinted to the mage's side, readying a Mithras Favour.

"Anders!" he called as the potion shimmered down onto the broken figure. "I need you!"

A pair of soldiers, their expressions grim, closed on him. Fenris spun to meet them, grunting as he discovered that they were no green recruits. Standing over Anders, he pushed them back with heavy swing after heavy swing.

"Anders!" he called again when he heard the mage's soft moan.

"There's an arrow in my kidney," Anders muttered. "A Blighted arrow."

The blood mage's shield dropped and she shouted.

Fenris tried to turn and attack, but the two soldiers delayed him. His skin began to burn. His lyrium brightened. A cry wrenched out of his throat as every vein seemed to swell. Blood hemorrhaged out of his nose, his skull tightened, his heart writhed against his ribs.

Then it stopped.

He gasped, pulling thorny air into his tortured lungs, and stared through eyes fogged with red. He watched lightning surround the blood mage, watched the earth tremble beneath her. Her horse went down and she screamed. Even her mouth filled with flickering indigo light. For a moment, she existed as a negative image, dark skin limned in light. Then she burst into flame.

Fenris dropped to his knees, wrapped around the pain of her spell. _Blood mages...they take the force of life from within you. Twist it. Turn it into a weapon. By the Old Ones, I hate them._

Above him, the two soldiers hesitated.

Isabela unstealthed between them and buried her daggers in their bellies. They stumbled away from her, groaning.

"I love a man covered in blood," she remarked to Fenris, looking him over, "but usually not his own." Something exploded behind her. Laughing, she whirled and sprinted away.

Fenris coughed up a mouthful of mucus and blood.

"Blighted maleficarum." Anders leaned close to him, voice a weary sigh. "Nearly as bad as arrows. I'll heal you if you promise to pull them out." Without waiting for a response, he closed his eyes, knuckles pressed to his brow, and sent magic to wash over Fenris' ravaged flesh.

Tentatively, then with greater assurance, Fenris drew in a long breath. "Thank you," he muttered. He sat back on his heels and sagged against Anders' solid presence, allowing himself a moment to recover and rest.

He didn't realize they held an embrace until Anders shifted and Fenris felt the movement where the mage's hand rested on his own hip. It made him suddenly aware that he sat in the curve of Anders' arm. He started to move away, but Anders groaned quietly and jerked his chin behind him.

"The arrows?"

"Yes," Fenris murmured. Little wonder that Anders clung to him; the man had been perforated. He eased Anders away so he rested with palms on the road, his head hanging. "Brace yourself."

Anders glared back at him through loose strands of golden hair. "I hate when people say that."

Fenris nearly smirked. He phased his hand and slid it into Anders' back. The mage sighed, and the tone shocked Fenris. He just about pulled his hand out. "Are you enjoying this?" he asked incredulously.

"Which answer will encourage you to continue?"

Fenris carefully extricated the first arrow. He dribbled a potion over the wound and watched it shimmer and close. He dipped his hand back in for the next, listening for Anders' reaction. "I never considered it to be a pleasant sensation," he commented when Anders hummed his approval. "You didn't seem to like it when I had my hand around your heart."

"It frightened me," Anders admitted. He glanced back again, his eyes dark. "But I wouldn't say I didn't enjoy it."

In silence, Fenris let the third and final arrow fall to the road. He closed the wound with the last of the potion and watched the new scar develop, pale against the golden skin of Anders' shoulder.

Zevran's war cry cut through the quiet. Fenris started, surprised that the battle continued when he and Anders seemed to have found this fragment of peace. Across a stretch of road littered with bodies, Zevran and Isabela squared off against the second blood mage. They, at least, had had the presence of mind to take down the mage's allies, leaving him vulnerable without any handy sacrifices.

"Do you think they need help?" Anders asked hoarsely.

Fenris pushed reddened strands of hair away from his face and forced himself back to his feet. "Need? No. However, I want to question him. There may be more patrols following us."

He stalked across the battlefield, shaking off the residual ache from the blood spell. Anders followed slowly behind, pausing only to cast a protective aura on Zevran and Isabela as they toyed with the remaining Tevinter. This blood mage, barely out of childhood from the looks of him, clung to his staff and whirled from side to side, trying to keep the two rogues in sight. His spirit bolts and miasma clouds did little more than make his opponents laugh.

"He is a child mage," Zevran purred, prodding the Tevinter's thigh with his long sword. "How adorable."

"Back off, knife ear!" the mage spat, his thin face flushing under a patchy growth of stubble. "I'll summon demons to flay you alive!"

"Please do." Zevran nodded toward Isabela and Fenris. "We are hungry for a decent battle, and your friends were no challenge."

The mage noticed Fenris and Anders approaching. His frightened eyes lifted to the field of deceased Tevinters, locking onto the smouldering remains of the other mage. "By all the gods," he uttered.

Zevran feinted toward him. The youth stepped back, tripped on his robe, and tumbled to the ground. In a smooth motion, Isabela kicked his staff away. Fenris strode silently to the mage's slippered feet. He folded his arms and sneered at the prone Tevinter, his dark amusement deepening when the youth tried to scramble backward and stopped when he felt the tip of Zevran's blade against his nape.

"I am going to kill you quickly," Fenris told him.

The mage opened his mouth to protest, but the word became a squawk when Zevran's sword jabbed a little deeper.

"Unless you do not answer my questions," Fenris continued, letting his voice drop into a dangerous murmur. He held up a clawed hand and phased it. The glow shone red through the blood coating his skin and armour. "If you do not answer, I will kill you slowly."

The maleficarum paled under his sheen of sweat. "I'm not afraid of you," he gasped.

Fenris smiled. "Good. This will be enjoyable." He dropped to one knee before the blood mage and slid his glowing hand into the youth's chest. Ignoring the little cries of terror and discomfort, he began with something simple. "How many more of you are searching for us?"

"Thousands," the youth hissed. He panted quick and shallow as Fenris' fingers wriggled in his lungs. "You'll never make it."

The boast gave Fenris pause. "Make it where?" he demanded.

"To Vol Dorma." The mage laughed shakily. "Not on your feet, anyway. The Viscount sent a bounty, a good enough bounty that my own father sent me to find you."

Anders cursed under his breath, echoing Fenris' sentiments.

"How?" Fenris snarled. "He is trapped in a desert storm!"

"Fool. He said you were a dangerous warrior, but he didn't say you were an idiot."

Fenris prepared to tear the mage's spleen out.

"The Viscount is an enemy to Tevinter," Anders interjected before Fenris killed the blood mage. "Why would your father help him?"

"My father senses the shifting winds. The blood and the Fade folk all whisper the same...Viscount Hawke wields more power than the Archon himself. When the Viscount arrives, everything will change. My family will rise to a seat of honour and glory, leaving this backwards countryside behind for some other half-wit mage to scrounge a living in the dirt and elf shit."

"Well," Anders commented. "Hawke is trying to start a civil war."

"Not trying," Fenris countered. "Succeeding." He tightened his grip. "What is the bounty?"

"A position at his side for any who capture the elven lyrium warrior and the human mage with Fade leaking through his skin. Dead or alive." He smiled past a grimace of pain. "You see? The Viscount has triumphed over death itself."

Fenris' skin crawled. "Enough," he muttered.

The young mage laughed, the sound hoarse and weak. "He will not stop," he said roughly. His voice deepened suddenly, as Fenris began to feel the shifting and squirming of the mage's innards.

The lyrium in his arm burned, first mildly, then with a searing pain as magic twisted the maleficarum's body. Fenris wrenched away and jumped to his feet, readying Bloom to drink deeply once again.

"The Master comes for you," the abomination growled. It rose, ropes of flesh and bony spikes bursting through the mage's robes as its hump grew and its arms lengthened. The youth's plump face withered until only a skull-like grin remained. Its glowing yellow eyes glared upon Fenris and Anders and it laughed as it declared, "And I, I will be his favourite, and I will fat myself upon the wretched cattle of this land!"

Fenris' mind reeled, scrambling to catch up to the words this creature spoke. Hawke had spent the first weeks of his reign clearing away covens of maleficarum. Why would he, if these demons spoke of him as 'Master'?

"The Master didn't tell you much about us, did he?" Anders asked. He met the abomination's hungry stare and smiled. His skin cracked, releasing streaks of the Fade's blue glow. "If he had," he continued in Justice's penetrating voice, "you would have left that boy to his fate."

"Such words from the Master's most devoted servant," the abomination chortled. "His strongest tool. His favoured pet. Fear not, my cousin, he will have you again!"

Anders howled in rage and attacked, startling Fenris with his intensity. Energy crackled up and down his staff and erupted in a fury of wind and fire. The roar swallowed any further words the abomination tried to speak.

The abomination staggered back, but didn't immediately fall. Its grin widened as it looked at Anders' frenzy. "The perfect slave."

Fenris flushed with rage of his own. He dashed forward, leapt past Anders and brought Bloom around to silence the creature forever.

/.\./.\

Zevran wiped his mouth with the back of a gloved hand and spat. "Ugh. The fluids of an abomination are always the worst. I need a drink." He leered at Anders. "Remember that if you ever have a lover. You taste disgusting."

Anders sighed and rolled his eyes. The more of these jibes he received, the less inclined he felt to just take them peaceably. Especially now, with the abomination's declarations swimming in his mind. "There's a creek a little ways back. I'll get some water." He relished the chance to quietly take stock of himself, to deal with his own terrible role in Hawke's rise to power.

_The abomination called him Master, though..._ He rolled this idea around, finding it strangely inspiring. _Does this mean he is not Hawke at all, but some kind of demon? I tried to reveal any possession when I first took him from Danarius and the spell failed. But maybe...maybe I was wrong. Or maybe the demon was strong enough to hide._ He jolted with the thought that this could by why Hawke destroyed so many abominations, maleficarum and demons, to hide his true self.

Lost in thought, Anders violently flinched as Fenris loomed up at his side. "Not alone," Fenris rumbled. He had caught the worst of the abomination's black ichor when it explosively died. His eyes and lyrium glimmered only faintly under the oily layer. "We will all go."

"Oh, a group bath. I like the sounds of that." Isabela, somehow, had managed to avoid any blood spatter at all, human and otherwise. She glanced up from looting the female blood mage's scorched corpse and smirked. "Who wants to play 'Drop the Soap'?"

"I do," Zevran immediately chimed.

"I would rather avoid another ambush," Fenris replied firmly. "With the region's Magister hunting for us, there will be many patrols combing the roads."

"More Tevinters for us to slaughter." Zevran's smile bore a sharper edge than his blades.

"I doubt they will be so unprepared in the future. Especially not when they find this." Fenris nodded at the road and the many twisted, dismembered cadavers beginning to rot in the afternoon sun.

Anders shifted and stepped forward. "They won't find it," he assured his companions. "Are you done looting, Isabela?"

"I am. Nothing better than a few rings and a staff to pawn."

Anders waited for the others to move away from the battlefield. He lifted his arms and called fire down to cleanse the road.

Later, when they had reclaimed their mounts, washed away the worst of the blood and continued on their way, Anders urged his mare up alongside Fenris' gelding. Zevran had joined in conversation with Isabela, so Anders could take the rare opportunity to speak with Fenris in relative privacy.

"I was thinking of what the abomination said," Anders began. "If Hawke is possessed by an extremely powerful demon, then we might be able to find him. To save him."

Fenris sighed, his shoulders and head drooping, surprising Anders with the sudden weary lines of his body. "I am so tired, Anders," he murmured to his own hands, folded on his saddle horn. "The moment I let myself feel hope again, it is dashed more violently than the last time. I bleed worse with every injury and it takes longer to get my feet back."

Anders swallowed heavily, his heart squeezing with guilt and sympathy. "I...I'm sorry, Fenris. I just thought...I don't know. I want to hope that he's still there. Somewhere."

"I would rather think him dead. Long dead." Fenris finally turned his head, regarding Anders with a gaze of deep sorrow. "Then I could mourn and lay him to rest. But his ghost haunts me, dancing before me, nipping my heels. I do not want to hope that he is alive. If he were alive, if he could see what this monster has done with his face, I think that would hurt him worse than death." He returned his gaze to the road ahead, falling silent.

Badly shaken, Anders had to breathe deeply to steady himself. He hadn't thought of it that way, but of course Fenris would fear any possible hope. Fenris had suffered worst of all, his entire life a tale of betrayal, torture, humiliation and war.

_Then I will carry this hope for us both_, Anders decided. He smiled faintly, sadly. _I would carry every burden I could for him._

They continued in silence for a while. Anders set aside his previous thoughts and more questions rose up to take their place. As Zevran still seemed to be involved in a discussion with Isabela, a conversation that apparently involved broad gestures and pointy objects, Anders cleared his throat to start another line of conversation.

"Would you really have tortured that blood mage?" he asked delicately, searching Fenris' profile. The topic of torture had never come up in their journeys before.

Fenris stared straight ahead and gave no indication that he heard the question. Anders could only assume that he had, knowing the elf's keen ear and even keener mind, and rode his horse silently while Fenris hopefully thought the question over. He didn't want to press too hard, not after Fenris' surprisingly honest revelations.

When Fenris finally answered, his soft rumble drew Anders out of a rumination on the alchemical properties of an abomination's blood. "No," he said. "At one time, I would have. A mage is not human. A mage's existence itself is torture, for himself and the people around him. What else could I do to him? Remove his organs, one by one? Let him feel his life slip away from the inside out? How can I ruin something that is already broken and tainted?

"Now, though..." He regarded Anders. "Now, I know that a mage is no different from another man. He clings to life like a weed, desperate to hold on. So desperate that he would use his last breath to gasp a pact with a demon, if only to gasp once more. So, no, I would not have tortured that child. I would have killed him cleanly."

"If he hadn't panicked and become an abomination," Anders muttered.

"A pity, but the demon revealed as much as the child." Fenris shrugged. "I may have been a little too convincing in my bluff. When this is over, maybe I will join a theatre company."

Anders guffawed and quickly coughed to cover his laughter. Fenris smirked at him, glimmers of humour escaping his dark contemplation. Anders memorized the expression and tucked it safely away in his heart. He held it close when Zevran noticed his amusement and pulled back to chase him away from Fenris' coveted side.

/.\./.\

Despite the ill-fated blood mage's phlegmy bravado that the local Magister would find them, the party arrived at a crossroads two days later, completely unmolested by anything larger than a mosquito.

They stopped, sweating quietly in the late morning sun. Isabela retrieved and unfolded her map, releasing a breath of whiskey into the still air. "That one likely goes to Weisshaupt," she commented, nodding to the narrow road turning sharply to the southwest. "There isn't much else around here. And that one probably hits the Highway. In about a half day's travel, I'd reckon." The other, wider road curved more gently to the east.

"Once we hit the highway, Vol Dorma might be another day. Two at the most." Anders peered over Isabela's arm, tracking the white snake of the highway. "I can't wait to get out of these forests." He cursed and slapped the back of his neck. When he held up his hand, a smear of blood gleamed on his palm. "Just my luck that the mosquitoes like the taste of abomination."

"Vol Dorma must be straight ahead," Fenris murmured. He leaned close to Isabela, then cast a speculative glance to the north. Ahead of them, past the crossroads, the forests thickened as they climbed a range of foothills. Beyond the hills, a lone peak jutted out of the dark green carpet and wore a shawl of mist around its crooked head and shoulders. "I remember seeing that old man from the other side. Danarius' apprentices enjoyed tossing me from it as I dreamt."

The confession seemed somehow more terrible in Fenris' flat, emotionless tone. Anders clenched his saddle horn to keep his guilt in check, though he wanted so badly to throw himself at Fenris' feet and beg for forgiveness.

Isabela smoothly changed the topic. "I suppose, with the highway so close to the east, it wasn't worth it to put a road through here."

"I'm sure the haunted forest and the evil looking mountain had nothing to do with it," Anders added. He tried to keep his voice light, especially after Fenris' revelation, but knew his tone came out sour. "We should have taken the Blighted highway to begin with."

"Wiser to take the back roads," Zevran pulled up and commented. "If we had it your way, abomination, my _amore_ would have been dragged back to the Viscount by now. Or perhaps that was your intent."

The very idea filled Anders' mouth with bitter gall, but he could not think of an objection that would not make Zevran's accusation that much more believable. Screaming his hatred at the assassin probably wouldn't win Fenris' favour.

"It's hardly a mountain," Fenris rumbled, staring hard at Zevran before turning his attention to the trees. "I fell from its height often enough to know. Besides, the forest may be haunted, but I have yet to see tree spirits that can stand up to a torch." He dismounted and began tugging on his gelding's tack. "We go through. It should take a day off our travel."

"I have a really bad feeling about this," Anders protested weakly, trying to get his mare to back up so he could glare past Isabela at the stubborn elf. "Didn't I tell you about the Blackmarsh? There was a dragon. A ghost dragon!"

Fenris glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow lifted. "Then we send it to wherever ghost dragons belong. We are close to Vol Dorma and running out of time. If we take the roads, we may be waylaid by more patrols, more magisters eager for Hawke's favour. We go through."

Anders peered into the black depths of the forest, felt the cold touch of its moist breath, and shivered. Something nameless awaited them, he could feel an evil intelligence peering back at him. "And if we find a river?" he tried, appealing to Fenris' stern pragmatism. "A ravine? A bottomless crevasse?!"

"Then we arrange a convenient accident," Zevran murmured slyly, his grin showing far too many teeth.

Fenris ignored the assassin, his stern glare fixed on Anders. "We deal with it."

Anders sagged and grasped at feeble excuses. "But the horses won't be able to get through."

"They will find their way to a meadow. We walk. It should take two days at most, if you do not slow us down."

"I won't." Anders sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, steeling himself for a last attempt at making Fenris see reason. "I want the same thing you do. I know how important it is for us to get to the Eluvian first, but I don't think this is the way. Something is in there. We have time to go around!" He flung out an arm, pointing to the south east. "We know where Hawke is. Even with Alexander, he's going to be crawling through the desert for weeks. His army will be digging its way out of the sand for even longer. He's distant!"

Fenris paused in unbuckling his horse's packs. "We can't know that," he said to a half-empty sack of rations. "I will not underestimate him again."

"I'm telling you, Fenris, I know!" To Anders, Hawke felt like a distant moon. The moment he thought about the man, demon or not, he could sense a faint pull on his inner tides. "I've always been able to. It's how I found you in the first place." After Kirkwall and the terrible war between Templars and mages, when all Thedas either hated or worshipped him for the evil he had committed, Hawke's steady presence had tugged him along. It called him and he had answered, only to stumbled onto Fenris, drugged and injured, in a gully on the Fereldan coast.

Fenris turned and folded his arms, lyrium rippling over his biceps. His green eyes narrowed dangerously. "And that turned out so well," he said softly.

Anders' objections died. He clamped his lips shut, nodded once, and dismounted on the other side of his mare, carefully out of sight. For a moment, he clung to the saddle, weak and shaky, resting his brow against the warm leather. Arguing with Fenris left him drained and mildly horrified, mostly at his own audacity. What right did he have to question Fenris' decisions?

_He is making a mistake_. The conviction would not leave him, despite the guilt and self-recrimination it caused. Then a thought occurred that made him laugh under his breath and sadly shake his head. This must have been how Hawke felt when Anders struck his final blow against Kirkwall's status quo. The sense that someone he cared about had done, or was about to do, something immensely foolish, but the powerful desire to stand by him regardless. _All right_, he told himself firmly, _whether you agree or not, you do not back down from your promises. _

His resolution bolstered, Anders began to assemble a bag of necessities to carry on his own back.

"I like forests, haunted and otherwise," Zevran began conversationally as the party, on foot, entered the shadows under the heavy boughs. "They are all so beautiful, more so when they have their own voices. Did I ever tell you about when the Warden took me to meet his clan? Well, I admit that we were on a quest, but it was still nice. Except that Morrigan and Leliana were with us."

Anders bit his cheek to keep from screaming, as every fibre of his being vibrated with the knowledge that they were making a terrible mistake.

"I have run through a few myself," Fenris replied, apparently oblivious to Anders' distress. "Usually with hounds on my tail. As it turns out, climbing the trees is not effective."

Zevran chuckled. "I have a few stories like that myself. Please, allow me to tell you..."

/.\./.\

Anders' thighs burned and his knees ached badly enough that, for a moment, he would have preferred death over the piercing pain stabbing into the joints. He started to shift position.

Fenris grabbed his arm and squeezed so forcefully that Anders briefly forgot about the pain in his knees. He crouched a little lower under the thick cover of the forest undergrowth. Fenris leaned forward, glowering out at the moonlit clearing. Zevran and Isabela lurked nearby, completely invisible and silent to Anders.

Beyond the cover of the bushes, the clearing shivered in the moonlight, as though a breeze touched the tall grasses. However, the air hung in perfect stillness. Something else shook the thin stems and broad leaves. Something stalked out there. Waiting. Hungry.

Clouds scudded across the sky. The moonlight wavered. In the patches of shadow, Anders saw the long, sinuous bodies of their hunters: a wolf-like creature of magic and rage. Their narrow heads turned this way and that as they stalked, searching for their hidden quarry. The moon revealed herself again, liquid silver pooling past the forest canopy, and the spirits vanished.

Fenris lifted his head to stare at the sky. Anders followed his gaze and watched a bank of clouds approach from the west. It snuffed out the stars as it came, demonstrating its thickness. If it could cover the moon for long enough, they might be able to make a break for it, to the deeper forest where the shadow creatures would be rendered harmless.

_How ironic_, Anders thought, not for the first time. _A dark hunter that can only strike in the light, but can only be seen in the shadows. I knew this was a bad idea. And Fenris thought torches would be good enough to fight the forest. Because that worked so well._ He could still feel the slice of talons in the flesh of his calf and hip, could see the skin part and blood well up from the invisible attack.

Fenris squeezed his arm again, startling Anders with the realization that the elf had been touching him for several minutes and Anders hadn't even noticed. His skin under Fenris' palm felt warm. His irritation at the decision to enter the forest faded. _If anyone should be allowed to make a mistake, it is surely him._

Another squeeze. Fenris glowered out of the darkness, his huge eyes glittering like the stars above. When he caught Anders' attention, he nodded at the clouds and then toward the clearing.

_Right._ Anders nodded. _As soon as the moon hides her face, we run. We run like our asses are on fire._

He took a deep breath, tried to shift his weight, took another breath, and then yelped as Fenris lunged forward, dragging Anders out of the bushes as he went. Anders' yelp became a genuine groan of agony when he tried to run. His knees lanced pain up and down his legs and he stumbled.

Black jaws snapped at his face. He flinched and tried to ignore them and the two burning embers that the shadow creatures used for eyes. The beasts couldn't hurt him, not until the light pinned them in the physical realm.

"Come on!" Isabela appeared on his other side, shoving in under his free arm and propelling him further into the clearing.

The shadows boiled around them as a dozen of the spirits tried to attack. Any moment now, Anders knew, the clouds would disperse and leave them vulnerable. Those curved fangs would sink in, the claws would rip and tear, and they could do nothing to stop it. The creatures had proven themselves immune to magic and physical weapons. In this forest, they were gods. Dread wolves. Things never meant to stalk the earth.

The clearing stretched wide before them. Anders' legs finally strengthened and he pelted through the long grass without aid, the other three sprinting alongside. Somewhere. In the darkness, Anders couldn't tell his friends from the black flanks of his foes. He followed the rare crash and crackle of a footstep, though the two rogues and the elven warrior made less sound altogether than the lone, human mage.

Heaving, panting, his lungs starving for air, Anders began to slow. His boots stumbled on branches and stones hidden under the grass. He rolled his ankles again and again, sending sparks of pain up his legs. He braved a glance at his destination, the line of trees and undergrowth at the far side of the clearing. His heart dropped; he had so far yet to cover, his strength drained like wine from a punctured flask. The others had left him and the clouds were, surely, about to pass...

"Anders!" Fenris barked from somewhere far ahead. "Hurry!"

Anders gasped and pushed harder.

The grass shook madly before him, nearly stopping him in his tracks. A form loomed out of the darkness and a powerful arm cinched around his waist. Fenris. The elf loped at his side, each step hauling Anders further and faster, through the gnashing teeth and burning glares.

Silver light appeared in slices around them, illuminating the grass and banishing the wolves. The creatures took on an even more eerie appearance as they passed in and out of the light, in and out of sight.

An instant before they reached the safety of darkness, the clearing flooded with light. Anders felt a vicious pain in his thigh. He cried out. Fenris grunted and leapt, shoving Anders into the bushes and rolling forward, deeper under cover.

In the impenetrable darkness, Zevran whispered urgently, "_Amore_, are you all right?" A patch of foliage rustled, as though a panicking assassin crawled through it, searching for his lover.

"Yes," Fenris muttered. The rustling stopped. Fenris huffed. "Gently, Zevran. I have a few scratches. Anders?"

Anders gulped for air. "I'm alive," he panted. "Bleeding, but alive."

"A shame," Zevran sneered. "Perhaps next time I will get lucky and you will not survive. Why did you go back for him, Fenris?"

"Why would I not?" Fenris replied waspishly.

Anders smiled into the fetid night, forgetting the burn of his injuries and the warm trickle of blood down his leg.

/.\./.\

The mountain loomed over them, its crooked peak like a down-turned face as the sun began to set on its far side. Although they had crossed over half of the dreadful forest, Anders felt no better than he had when they first entered it.

"I think it's watching us," he commented, squinting through a break in the canopy at the old man mountain.

"Let it," Isabela replied. "If I was a lonely mountain, I would watch me, too."

Anders stared at it until they passed back under the trees.

They ran into a swamp shortly after. Rather, Zevran ran into it, nearly losing his boot to the noxious sludge.

"I would let the swamp keep the boots," he remarked, wrinkling his nose at the stench rolling off of his foot. "But the Warden gave these to me."

"We should go around," Fenris said, peering at the swamp.

The swamp's edge blended nearly indistinguishably from the forest. A thick, leafy mulch covered the rotting bogs. Only further in, when the trees shrank to pale, withered specimens tilting out of the swamp like the moss-draped femurs of giants, did the black bog reveal itself. The thick sludge bubbled and glistened, rippling with the movements of some hidden creature. A putrid, violet fog crept over the surface of the bog, playing tricks on the eye and casting an illusion of malicious spirits.

"Go around?" Anders repeated, eyebrows lifted in surprise and amusement. "I didn't think you knew how."

Fenris snorted, his lip twitching. "Do not mistake efficiency for inflexibility."

"I know how flexible you are," Zevran crooned.

Anders smothered a groan. Just what he wanted to hear, in this wretched place.

Fenris led them along the edge of the swamp as the sun descended and the shadows darkened. Foxfire glowed on fallen logs, helping Anders pick his way across the treacherous forest floor.

"We will go to higher ground," Fenris told them, pointing to the foot of the mountain ahead of them. "And rest until moonrise."

"Thank the Maker," Anders sighed. He ached everywhere and his stomach gnawed at his spine. At least his wounds had healed nicely, without any infection from those Blighted dread wolves. He could soothe his pride, as well, with the memory of Fenris allowing the mage to tend to his own scratches, much to Zevran's rather vocal dismay. At the reminder, he added, "Do you think those wolves will return? I'd like a fire."

"The wolves wouldn't come this deep into the forest," Isabela replied jovially. "Do you really want to find out why?"

The elves murmured their agreement. No fires in the forest.

The swamp retreated to the north as the ground rose and the damp earth became dry and hard. Fenris followed the edge, the others treading carefully behind him. Stars winked to life through gaps in the canopy above them and the sunlight vanished, leaving them in the pitchy darkness that Anders so abhorred. He fought the urge to call light to his hand, knowing that his companions would only chide him for giving them away.

After several minutes and too many stumbles to count, Anders panted, "I thought we were going to stop. I can't see a Blighted thing."

"We are nearly there," Fenris rumbled back. "There is a break in the trees. It looks like a ridge."

Anders pulled himself up the steepening hill, using his staff to keep himself from falling every time his toe caught on a branch or a root. Gradually, the light increased as the trees thinned, and he finally caught sight of his companions, the two rogues like spirits in the night and Fenris like the night himself. The three emerged into the starlight at the top of the rise, where the stone bones of the mountain broke through the earth and nothing more than a few weeds grew.

"Well, this is interesting," Isabela remarked, her voice echoing strangely back to Anders where he continued to struggle through the growth.

"I do not think we will be able to go around this obstacle, _amore_."

Anders finally emerged, thin vines snapping as he pushed his way out into the open. He limped to his three companions where they stood atop the rocky ridge, staring at something on the other side.

"Anders," Fenris warned, "if you say a word, I will throw you in."

"Throw me in?" Anders finally drew near enough to see what the others were staring at. He stopped. A hysterical laugh burbled up from his chest, managing to get past the tight bands of exhaustion around his lungs. "Is that...?"

"Do not say it."

"Is that a _bottomless crevasse_?"

A vast, jagged ravine opened before them, the edge of it only a few yards past the top of the rise. It extended to either side until it disappeared from sight. Anders wouldn't have been surprised if it reached from the swamp to the mountain itself. He crept carefully closer to peer into the oily darkness and frowned at the frigid chill that met him.

"Careful." A hand slammed into his back, nearly sending him in. At the last moment, Zevran grabbed Anders' robes and kept him from stumbling forward. "You do not want to fall in," the assassin purred close to Anders' ear.

Anders, his heart pounding and a flush of adrenaline making him shake, hurriedly back-pedalled. "No," he wheezed. "No I don't."

"What do you think is in there?" Isabela wondered. She leaned over the edge and shouted, "Hello!"

Her voice echoed back. "Hello! ...Ello! ...Lo!"

"Oh, finally, some intelligent conversation." The pirate chuckled.

A cold wind gusted out of the crevasse, rank with a sick, rotten scent.

"More swamp, from the smell of it," Zevran observed.

"I don't know," Anders snapped back. "All I smell is you and the bog in your boot. Though I think the bog water makes an improvement."

"Are those teeth, abomination? I wondered when you would start to show your true self."

"Enough," Fenris interrupted. He padded between them, casting a hard green stare from one to the other. "Anders, I want to see how deep it goes. We may be able to climb down and up the other side."

The mere suggestion sent a chill down Anders' spine. "You want to go down there?" he asked, unable to keep a quaver out of his voice.

"Not particularly, but I will do what I must. Either we go through it, or we try the foot of the mountain." His white head nodded at the ragged edge. "Light, Anders."

_This is a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake._ Anders sidled back to the black maw of the crevasse. His internal alarm at entering the forest intensified, leading him to wonder if the source of his fear lurked in this deep, impenetrable darkness. He drew in a shaky breath. A sharp, copper tang coated his tongue, but he could only swallow it down with his fear. _I may not agree_, he reminded himself, _but I will trust Fenris. I will help him and stand with him for as long as he allows it._ He clenched a fist. When it opened, a slim flame danced in his palm. It shrank, as though in response to his fear, then grew with his firming resolve.

The ruddy light increased as he fed his strength into it. Anders glanced up and found his companions. They shielded their eyes from the light, allowing Anders to steal a precious moment of admiring Fenris' stern face and slender figure; the hidden strength in his lyrium-traced arms; the way he stood with his bare feet braced on the stone, as though prepared to pitch a battle against the entire world.

Anders shook his head, banishing the clinging fog of guilt, regret and desire. He intensified his flame and lobbed it into the ravine.

The other three leaned forward to watch the flickering ball of fire fall. It quickly shrank, then shrank some more. It became a tiny star glimmering in the night. Then it winked out.

They stood in a moment of contemplative silence.

"Bottomless creva—"

"Shut up, Anders," Fenris snapped. "Do it again. Send two. There is no such thing as a bottomless crevasse. Everything has a bottom!"

Zevran and Isabela sniggered.

"As you wish." Anders bowed his head. He held out both hands and summoned flame to wreath them. This time, he let the fire grow to a large, dangerous size, until his companions moved away from the crackling heat and their long-limbed shadows leapt and danced on the rocky ground behind them. With a sharp motion, Anders hurled the fires into the crevasse.

One of the balls fell, shrinking, until it merely disappeared. The other, though, hit something. Perhaps a hundred feet down, it exploded in a splash of little flames, briefly illuminating what it hit. Glossy chitin. A mandible. Thick hairs. Many, many faceted eyes.

"Um," Anders wheezed.

"Was that one creature or many?" Zevran whispered.

Something began to click in the inky darkness.

_Click._

"I recommend a strategic retreat," Isabela murmured.

_Click-click-click._ The sound echoed out of the ravine, joined by another, the _scritch_ of claws against stone.

The party backed away from the edge as the sound drew nearer. Zevran lifted his bow. Fenris pulled Bloom from his shoulder. Isabela drew her blades. Anders cast familiar auras, settling his nerves with the protective patterns.

"I do not think retreat is an option," Fenris murmured. His axe glittered with enchantments. Light seared along his tattoos and sparked a determined glare in his eyes. "Not for us and not for it."

"How did I know you'd say that?" Anders asked. He raised his staff, tapping into the Fade trembling eagerly beneath his skin.

The moon rose over the eastern forest, illuminating the massive, twitching antennae, the smooth, glittering black head, and the pools of its eyes. The behemoth centipede oozed out of the ravine, its millions of legs rendering its movements eerily fluid, eerily quiet beyond the _click-scritch-click-scritch-click _of its feet on the stone.

Zevran fired an arrow, busting a faceted eye.

"Hold," Fenris ordered quietly, stepping backward down the slope. "Let it come. A giant insect to some...is a bridge to others."

"You're insane," Anders said, laughing a bit hysterically. _And I love you._

Taller than a dragon, little legs wriggling, the thing drew itself up. It towered over the insignificant beings who dared to wake it from its centuries long slumber in the basement of Thedas. Its mandibles clacked together and the _crack_ echoed across the forest and the slope of the lonely mountain.

"Do not mistake efficiency for insanity," Fenris replied, the words rolling with a chuckle.

When the giant centipede attacked, bowing forward to lunge at the party in the moonlit night, it met a battery of enchanted arrows, an ice-cursed axe, two blood-thirsty blades and a wall of fire.

/.\./.\

When they emerged from the forest, exhausted and stained, Anders nearly didn't believe his senses. Surely, the sunlit meadow was an illusion. Surely, his mind conjured the sweet scent of wildflowers and summer-dry grasses, the kiss of a breeze and the warmth of the sun on his eyelids. When he opened them, he expected that he would find himself trapped in the forest again.

Instead, the Tevinter fields unrolled before him like the Maker's quilt. To the east, he caught the sparkle of the highway. Ahead of them, to the north, the spires and walls of the city of Academia glowed in the bright afternoon under a perfect, featureless blue sky.

"Finally," he whispered, dropping where he stood. He let his hands sink into the thick grass and fragrant sod, drinking in the life thriving around them. Birds flew by overhead, their song as sweet as wine.

Isabela chuckled and settled more gracefully beside him. She stretched her long legs and leaned on her elbows, turning her tanned face to the sun and shutting her kohl-lined eyes. "I agree. Fenris, your crew demands a rest."

"Is it a mutiny?" Fenris asked, his voice rich with amusement.

"Just good advice," the pirate replied.

"Then who am I to argue?" Fenris sat next to her. Before he could lie back, Zevran slid in behind him, offering a lap to pillow the warrior's head. Using his teeth, Zevran stripped a glove off and laced his long, bare fingers into Fenris' white hair.

Anders turned away from the easy affection between the elves. No matter the aches in his body, it seemed his heart could still experience a sharper pain.

"We will be in Vol Dorma by nightfall," Fenris said solemnly. "And if that blood mage was right, most of the Magisters are preparing an attack at the Silent Plains."

"Most of them," Anders agreed. "Except the ones Hawke convinced to turn traitor. They will be hunting for us."


	39. Chapter 37

**Author's Note:** In which there is talking, yelling, the stamping of feet, and Isabela starts a quest of her own.

**Playlist Recommendations:**

Save Me – Supreme Majesty

Bleeding Out – Imagine Dragons

Brother – Lord Huron

Broken Crown – Mumford and Sons

**Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe**

**Chapter Thirty-seven**

The small inn huddled in the shadow of Vol Dorma's wall, amongst a ramshackle assortment of outbuildings and rubbish heaps. The Imperial Highway entered Vol Dorma at a distant gate, far from this dispirited inn and the quagmire of disenfranchised humanity around it. When he opened their room's window, Anders caught a whiff of sickness and poverty and wrinkled his nose.

"We couldn't have gotten a room somewhere a little less pungent?" Isabela asked from the lone bed. She dropped onto it, testing its resiliency.

Anders tore his gaze away from the bouncing pirate and the energetic counter-bounce of her anatomy. "That would put us right by the highway." He leaned out and peered up at the city wall blocking out most of the indigo sky, splashed with the crimson and gold of twilight. "I'm nervous enough right here. I feel like something's watching us."

"You always feel like something's watching you," Isabela chided him. "I knew a bloke who went mad thinking things like that. Ended up on a rock in the middle of the sea, convinced that everyone on land wanted to kill him. He built himself a hut out there, and then got swept away in the first spring storm."

"Thank you, Isabela," Anders said flatly. "Very reassuring."

"I'm just saying." She shrugged. "You gain nothing by being paranoid."

"Well, except staying alive." He folded his arms on the window sill, leaning out and examining the featureless structure towering over the inn. "As long as I don't live in a hut on the sea." He couldn't see anything on the wall, no more than a few arrow slits and the blank, distant stares of an intimidation of gargoyles. No Tevinter guardsmen walked the ramparts under the rippling Vol Dorma pennants. Despite this, he felt a shiver, aware of something looking out at him.

Isabela groaned, pulling Anders' attention back into the room. He smirked to see the pirate lying spread eagle on the bed, her eyes closed and a feline smile on her face.

"So soft," she murmured.

"Looks like it," Anders replied. "Very soft."

She cracked an amber eye open. "You can do more than look."

He shook his head. "Perhaps. But I don't want to."

"A pity." She sighed and closed her eyes again. "Poor Isabela," she said to herself. "The most attractive love triangle you've ever seen and you can't join in. And all your Antivans are far, far away."

"I weep for you. On the inside."

"You should."

Anders chuckled and pushed away from the window. "I'm going to see if this cesspit has some decent food. Try not to pine away while I'm gone."

"If you don't hurry, I'll starve first." Isabela blindly pointed toward her bags. "There should be some junk to sell in there, love."

On the main floor, Anders waded through the sour, smoky gloom to the bar, his eyes watering. He dumped Isabela's collection of loot on the stained and splintered wood. Bits of tarnished jewelry, a bottle of something, scraps of cloth, a thin book. Anders tossed the young maleficarum's staff on top, to clatter against the bar.

Wiping his hands on an oily rag, the barkeep eyed the pile. "Is that blood?"

"Um. Maybe." Anders picked a bit of dark brown crust off the staff's jewelled serpent head.

"Where did you get it all?"

"Oh. Here and there. I assure you, serah, my lady wife and I are simple purveyors of fine, lightly used goods."

The barkeep grunted. He plucked a pendant off the bar and scrutinized it in a dim shaft of light from a sooty lantern. It sparkled faintly with a weak enchantment. "Fine. Twenty silvers for the lot."

Anders nearly choked on the man's audacity; the staff alone would bring three times that amount in an honest shop. He didn't have much time or energy to argue, though. "Throw in our room and dinner and you have a deal," he agreed.

The barkeep nodded and made a series of intricate gestures at the wraith-like woman ghosting among the crowded tables. She bowed slightly and disappeared into the back. Anders watched her go, hoping the food would be less diseased than the server.

"So what's going on in Vol Dorma these days?" he asked with exaggerated nonchalance while he waited.

The barkeep spat onto the dirty earthen floor. "The usual circus," he griped. "Magisters dancing 'round each other, can't decide whether they're friend or foe. Like as much they set their best allies on fire as they'll hit the enemy."

"Politics, am I right?"

Another gob of saliva hit the floor in a puff of dust. "Old gods take the lot of them. Can't do a day of business without some new tariff. They got a curfew on, too. Something's got them all in an uproar, buzzing around like a wasp nest. Half the magisters went east with their bloody retinues. And who pays for it?"

"You do?"

"Damn right!" The man slammed a fist on the bar, making the pile of loot jump. Several pieces slid off onto the floor. The man didn't seem to notice. His face flushed a deep red and his bugged eyes glowered toward the city. "Them old grey-hairs walk all over us. We carry them on our shoulders and all they do is bite and scratch each other. Bunch of old women, in my mind, all gossip and dirty robes."

"So they're fighting each other?"

"And everything else. The Qunari, the Nevarrans, the other barbarians. Blighted magisters don't know when to quit. Every day there's some big declaration of Imperial supremacy, but where's the profit for Handsome Vinicius?"

"Handsome Vinicius?"

"You're looking at him."

"Oh." Anders smiled weakly. "Of course. I should have realized, Handsome."

The barkeep squinted. "I ain't that way, trader."

The serving wench returned, saving Anders from needing to cobble together a response. He accepted the bundle of hard breads and withered vegetables, the greasy bottle of something, and a small pot of something else. Handsome Vinicius dropped a full pouch of coins on top of the arm load.

"Thank you for the news, serah," Anders said, trying to dip a bow without dropping anything. "And the...fair...trade."

Handsome Vinicius smiled, displaying his three brown teeth. "Send the lady wife down next time, trader."

Eyes rolling, Anders stomped back upstairs.

Isabela already had lit a lamp in the window when Anders returned. Night had completely descended beyond the ruddy glow of the lamp, impenetrable to Anders' gaze. A chill fluttered down his spine when he tried to probe that black rectangle, and the sense of being watched grew stronger.

"Finally," Isabela sighed, stealing the bundle from Anders' arms. "I was about to boil my boots."

"I don't think this will be much better," Anders replied wryly. "I think that bread is more of a leafy green by now. And I don't know what's in the pot."

Despite the questionable fare, the two humans devoured it, sitting on the floor and spreading it out like a picnic. Anders initially intended on setting enough aside for Fenris and Zevran, but his stomach yowled for more the moment he tried to stop. They washed it back with whatever sloshed in the bottle, a hard liquor that burned their throats, obliterated their taste buds, and was probably brewed as a weapon more than a beverage.

"They won't be happy," Isabela observed, poking the empty stew pot.

"Here. Handsome Vinicius wants to meet you." Anders dropped the money into her hands. "Maybe you can get us a discount so we can feed our elves."

Isabela shook her head. "You've been in Tevinter too long, love. Our elves?"

Anders shrugged and slumped back against the edge of the bed. The fire of alcohol in his belly had become a fog in his mind, obscuring his thoughts. He let his eyelids droop and didn't notice Isabela depart. Exhaustion tugged him down. His unfocused gaze locked on the lamp glowing steadily in the black window.

_Why was I so afraid?_ he wondered. A passing breeze made the tiny flame flicker. _Fenris is out there somewhere, and he is more dangerous than any magister or demon. _

/.\./.\

Fenris crossed from the cover of the long grass first, leaving Zevran to follow later. He padded silently through the sprawling buildings, his nose wrinkling and his sharp ear pricked for any sound. He heard only the moan of the wind, channelled by the Vol Dorma wall, and the dull murmur of voices within the shanties. Families lived out here, somehow scraping enough food and money from the squalor to survive. He saw only the rare speck of light, as though candles, oil and fire wood were simply too expensive for most of the residents.

This made his goal easy to find, at least. Fenris carefully climbed a pile of trash and dropped into the small inn's rear courtyard. The light of a lamp pierced the night from an open second floor window. Fenris gripped the crumbling stucco and rough woodwork and easily ascended the wall. He pulled himself over the sill, swung his legs in, and paused at what he found.

Anders sat on the floor, leaning against the room's lone bed. Eyes closed, his breathing even, he seemed to be asleep.

Fenris observed the mage's slack face, startled at the change. He hadn't realized how tense and unhappy Anders usually was, not until he saw the constant frown smoothed away.

Anders twitched violently, his brows beetling, legs and arms curling inward. He muttered something insensible, but obviously afraid, almost panicky.

_Either Justice or the Blight_, Fenris thought. _Or one of the many other voices from his past._

Fenris approached and lay a hand on Anders' shoulder. "Anders," he murmured. "You are dreaming. Wake up."

Anders sighed, but did not wake. The sharp tang of alcohol on his breath made it obvious that it would take more than a gentle call to rouse him. Briefly, Fenris considered forcing the issue. Then he gave himself a mental shake. While he and Zevran had waited in the fields for night to fall, resting in each other's arms, Anders and Isabela had continued on to secure a safe place for the elves to sleep and eat. Anders deserved a rest.

Fenris carefully slid his arms under Anders' knees and shoulders and lifted the mage onto the bed. He straightened Anders' limbs and robe, and then, because they were alone and old instincts seemed to gain strength in the quiet night, he brushed loose hairs away from the mage's face.

Anders sighed again, turning his head toward the caress.

Instead of the usual sickening wrench of memory and fear, Fenris felt only fondness. His ill-fated decision to travel through the forest had demonstrated Anders' loyalty and strength. As much as the mage had argued against Fenris' decision, he had continued to follow, fight and heal. Fenris remembered standing by Hawke against the Templars in Kirkwall to protect the mages, remembered his deep-seated anger overcome by the need to stand with his beloved Hawke. Did Anders feel the same way when Fenris chose that route?

The door clicked open. Fenris snatched his hand back, realizing that he had been sitting here, stroking Anders' sleeping brow, for several minutes. Isabela edged into the room, one arm full of something that smelled food-like.

She smirked and whispered, "And me without a single Blighted Antivan."

Fenris blinked. "What?"

/.\./.\

Fenris' fondness for Anders waned the following morning, when the man refused to see reason and agree with Fenris' strategy. Zevran and Isabela didn't help matters, either, but Anders was the main voice of dissidence. As usual.

"We confront Danarius head on," Fenris insisted. "I will not hide from him. I will not make deals. I will not skulk in the shadows." He gestured at the inn. "This is bad enough."

"You can't simply walk into Vol Dorma," Anders countered. Legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, arms loosely folded, he leaned back against the bed, apparently perfectly at ease. But then, he had not suffered an eternity of torture in this cursed city. He nodded toward the city. "We have an amazing opportunity here. Vini told me the Magisters are at each other's throats trying to figure out what to do about Hawke. Danarius is right in the middle because Hawke is his creation. Some of them are calling for his blood. We find his enemy and we find an ally."

"Who is Vini—? No." Fenris shook his head. "It matters not. None of these blood-soaked snakes can be trusted. They are all the same."

"Not all mages are the same-"

"These are not mages!" Fenris slammed a fist against the floor, scaring up a cloud of dust. "These are magisters! These are the eyes that watched from the shadowed pews as Danarius took me apart, again and again, as he stripped away everything I ever was!"

Anders flinched and dropped his gaze. "I...I'm sorry..."

"All the more reason to let me slit his throat and bring you his heart, _amore_." Zevran slid his arm around Fenris' tense body. With his other hand, he mimed sliding a blade across a throat. "To avenge my Warden, to avenge my beloved Fenris. He would not hear me. He would not see me. Not until the very end, when I will whisper his crimes in his ear."

Fenris shivered as Zevran breathed in his ear and abruptly wished that they were alone. He forced the thought away. Focus. "He will be thickly defended," he warned the assassin, taking Zevran's hand between his own. "And I would not allow you to go alone. Danarius has stolen too much from me already."

Zevran's eyes glowed. He leaned closer, pulling Fenris' arm around his waist and tightening his embrace. "I would kill him before he could try again."

Fenris' heart jogged and his stomach fluttered. He tried to think of a response that involved more than shoving Zevran over and tearing away his armour.

Motion in his peripheral drew his attention in time to see Anders turn away, rubbing his eyes. Reminded that they were not alone, Fenris reluctantly and gently pried Zevran away from him.

"So we sneak into his home?" Isabela interrupted. She lounged on the bed, head resting on one palm, the fingers of her other hand toying absently with Anders' hair. "Tie him up and let Fenris do whatever he pleases?"

"We don't know where he'll be," Anders objected quietly. "We don't know who will be with him. We don't know how to get through the city. Vini said the place is crawling with frightened magisters and their retinues, all of them hungry for battle. The Archon has legislated curfews and tolls on the main roads. Fenris, this time we won't be able to just walk in."

"So you would make a deal," Fenris snapped. "Like you did before? I remember how easy you made it for us. I remember following you like a fatted lamb to the slaughter-"

"Stop!" Anders turned away, a shaking hand to his flushed forehead, tears welling in his eyes. "Please. I'm sorry." He drew a long breath before continuing. "That's not what I meant. But it's true that Danarius told me where to go and what to do. He had agents in place to keep us from being waylaid. Without that, we won't be able to walk anywhere without being stopped. At the very least, Danarius will be warned of our coming! He'll be ready for us!"

"Let him," Fenris hissed. "It makes no difference. He created me, but he has no idea how strong I have become. _What_ I have become."

"That's idiocy." Anders visibly steeled himself to look directly at Fenris, his eyelids flickering. "You're blinded by your anger. Please. I don't want you to underestimate him!"

Rage-at Danarius, at the Imperium, at Anders, at Hawke, and at himself, the forgotten Leto and the confused, torn, victimized Fenris-boiled within him. "No more!" he roared, lunging to his feet. "I will not cower from him! I will not allow him to live!" His lyrium flared, burning bright with his anger. "His end has come!"

The others stared at him in wide-eyed silence, washed out in the pale light of his fury. Fenris, fists clenched and trembling, panted heavily for a few heartbeats. When no one made a move, he realized what he was doing. He let his lyrium fade and his hands relax. Slowly, his head hanging, he sank back to the floor.

Zevran immediately lay a warm palm against the small of his back.

"I doubt he'll expect a frontal assault," Isabela commented softly.

"Or expect the four of us," Anders added. "We just need a way to get to him without alerting him to our strength."

"Pretend to give yourself up?" Isabela asked, shrugging. "Show up in chains and then, oops, the chains are made of sugar paste?"

"Some of us can move unseen," Zevran scoffed. "We go by night and he will not see us until we stand at the foot of his bed."

"We need more information." Anders gazed at Fenris with quiet, gentle insistence. "If I could, I would drag Danrius here and hold him down while you strip his skin away. But we need to find him first."

"And what would you do? We are in the vipers' nest with few options and no allies."

Anders jerked in place, straightening and making a small outcry of surprise.

"What is it?"

"We do have allies," Anders explained rapidly, leaning forward, almost breathless in his excitement. "No wonder I feel uneasy. Vol Dorma has a Grey Warden keep!"

"And?"

"I'm still a warden." Anders smirked bitterly. "And for the first time, I'm glad for it. I'll ask them for their aid. They must realize that Hawke is something nearly as bad as an Archdemon, as dangerous as a Blight."

"Will they? I know little of the wardens." Fenris nodded to Zevran. "Apart from yours, but I would not assume such greatness from all wardens."

Zevran nodded in return, smiling thinly, and his arm tightened around Fenris' waist. "My thanks, _amore_. I wish I could tell you more of them, but other than my Warden and Alistair, the Grey Wardens I dealt with were spirits. From what I hear, they are all loyal to their cause and very...disciplined."

"Very," Anders agreed. "They must give up their lives, everything they have, to join."

"Did you?" Fenris asked.

"I had very little to lose," Anders replied with wry humour. "Except a cold cell and colder future. I didn't realize, though, that they would take something I didn't realize I valued so highly."

"Your cat," Isabela put in. "I remember."

Anders nodded. "Sometimes we don't know what we care about until it is taken away. We don't realize a sacrifice isn't worth it until after we've made it." His pale brown eyes flicked to Fenris and quickly away. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, they don't usually interfere in political affairs, but I think Hawke's actions go beyond politics."

"Do you think they'll listen to you? Did you not betray them? Forsake them?"

"I..." He swallowed audibly, misery in the lines of his face. "I hope that they will look beyond it to the greater danger. I also don't see many other options."

"And what do you think these wardens might do for us?"

"Smuggle us through the city? Give us information on Danarius' resources? On his defenses and allies? Anything that might be useful."

"And if they refuse?"

"Then I return and we are no worse off." Anders offered a small smile and spread his hands. "I will go in, find and talk to the wardens, and return before curfew."

"There are magisters looking for you. Remember the child? Hawke put a bounty on us."

"They're looking for a mage travelling with a lyrium-inscribed elf and leaking with the Fade. I think I can contain myself for a few hours. Besides, I'll be mingling with the unwashed masses, not prancing about tossing fire balls. I won't give them a reason to even look in my direction."

"I do not like it," Fenris grumbled.

Anders' smile widened into a grin. "That isn't a 'no.'" He shook his head. "Fenris, I swear, I swear on anything you can name, that I will never betray you again. I would rather carve out my own heart. I beg that you let me do this for you. I want to...to serve you." He held out his hands beseechingly, as though already offering his heart. "You let me walk with you this far, and for that I'm grateful. More than I can ever say. Please, allow me, this once, to walk ahead and clear the way for you."

He fell silent, his expression hopeful. He wet his lips as the silence dragged on, the hope gradually fading.

Fenris stared, surprised by the conflict in his own breast. He should have felt a wash of distrust, perhaps slivers of anger that Anders would so much as dare suggest that Fenris let him go off alone. Instead, Fenris' strongest reaction was a flare of fear, almost panic, at the thought of Anders going alone into the den of their enemies. Anders, as powerful as he had become, could be taken off guard by something as innocuous as an arrow, a blade, or spoiled meat.

"I apologize," Anders suddenly blurted, interrupting Fenris' ruminations. "I shouldn't have even suggested it. I shouldn't have-"

"Anders, it is not your loyalty that concerns me, but your safety."

"What?" Anders' head snapped up, eyes wide.

"What?" Zevran echoed. "Are you mad? You would let him wander in there alone? He would send your old master out to collect you! Just as he did before," he added with a sneer in Anders' direction.

"I do not think so," Fenris responded carefully, closely watching Anders' face.

"No force in this world or any other could make me turn from you," Anders vowed, without a flinch or flicker of eyelid. "I swear it."

Fenris nodded once. "Then it is so. Isabela, would you go with him?"

"I hoped you'd ask," she replied, grinning. "Watching Anders' backside used to be a hobby of mine."

Anders flushed. "What?"

"Well, I suppose I could say the same about the lot of you. Why do you think I followed Hawke for so long?"

Fenris sighed. "Is that why you are with us now?"

"Partly." Isabela shrugged shamelessly. "My friend fiction was a huge success with the queen and I need new material." She sat up and leaned forward, elbow to knee, chin cupped in her palm. "Tell me, Fenris," she began, smiling up at him, "did Anders ever do the electricity trick on you?"

"I'm not going to answer that," Fenris scowled.

Isabela glanced between red-faced Anders and Fenris' glower and cackled. "I knew it," she cheered. "The first time I saw you two together, I thought, 'one day Anders is going to do the electricity trick on that elf.' The only question was whether you'd run him through after."

Fenris did not appreciate the reminder of that tense, heated desert night, and the few days of delirious passion that followed. He gripped his knees to keep his wounded anger in check.

Anders cleared his throat and interrupted delicately, "We should discuss our plan for tomorrow. I can feel the other wardens. They bring the Blight close under my skin. But I don't think we can just walk in there and find what we're looking for."

/.\./.\

Anders stared up at the tall, narrow gates of Vol Dorma. Although the city herself had long ago become a place of learning, science, teaching and art, the gate's iron bands, scarred rivets and ancient enchantments told her past of war and revolution. He and Isabela mingled with farmers, pilgrims, messengers and a rowdy magister's son who managed to get himself locked out after a night of carousing around the countryside.

"Open the Blighted doors!" the young aristocrat demanded, knocking his twisted cane against the impassive gate. He glowered upward when no response came. "How dare they keep me here with these mongrels."

Isabela lifted a sculpted brow. "I'll be back in a moment, love," she murmured and skulked off through the crowd.

Anders watched her go. He shifted uneasily, the spot between his shoulderblades itching with a sudden sense of vulnerability. Fenris' words of the previous evening returned, his grim warnings that Anders could be taken unawares by something as banal as a cut-purse's knife. He badly wanted to cast some subtle auras, but knew they might undo all of his efforts to fit in with the unexceptional masses. No magic. Even carrying his staff had been a major concession from Fenris' stern commands.

_Almost like he's worried about me_, Anders thought, the itch becoming a pleasant, excited chill. _Like he cares. At least a little bit._ He allowed himself a few moments to imagine a future with Fenris. Perhaps returning to Kirkwall, or hiding out in a cabin in the Anderfels, or traveling the roads of Ferelden. If Anders had his way, wherever they ended up would be far from Zevran and Zevran's arrogant and ill-mannered possessiveness, which really couldn't be doing Fenris any good.

Motion drew his attention. The young aristocrat flicked a demanding few fingers at one of his attendants. This woman bowed, swept forward and cast a ball of fire at Vol Dorma's tall gate. Not surprisingly, the gate's enchantments lashed back, setting the woman's robes aflame. She dashed, screaming, across the road, much to the entertainment of her laughing master.

"Lovely fellow," Isabela remarked.

"Gah!" Anders leapt sideways, electricity crackling around his hands. He quickly smothered the reaction before someone noticed. "A little warning next time? Maybe?"

Isabela shrugged. She had somehow managed to sneak behind him, disregarding the crowd and the fact that Anders had been staring right at her. "It's the lad's birthday," she told him. "Well, it was. Yesterday."

"How do you know that?"

"Look." She held up a silver pendant. It shimmered as it hung, slowly spinning, on a thin chain.

Anders gingerly touched it and instantly felt the enchantment creep over him. "It'll make you faster," he noted. "Harder to hit. A little tougher. Someone wanted him to live through a few skirmishes." He rotated it and read the delicate inscription on the back. "'To my dearest Cesare on your seventeenth year, this day of...'" Anders regarded Isabela over it. "You stole a child's birthday gift. How do you sleep at night?"

"I don't." Isabela leered, then presented another item. "I also stole a key. I'm going to try it in every door in Vol Dorma."

"Maker help me," Anders sighed.

Her full lips pouted. "I can't have a quest, too? You and Fenris are going to hog all the adventures?"

Anders held up his hands, passifying. "No, no," he said. "Please, don't let me hinder you in The Quest To Find The Door That Fits This Key."

"Thank you." Isabela held it up to the early morning sunlight. The scuffed brass barely winked.

An arrow of sunlight pierced the sky from the east, immediately followed by a clunk and rattle from Vol Dorma's gate. The crowd groaned in relief and shuffled forward, sweeping Anders and Isabela along with them.

Anders had hoped that he would recognize the city from his last visit, but that had been a lifetime ago and he had existed in a state of constant fear and self-loathing. He recognized nothing. The streets in this district wound inward from the gates, a tangle of passages walled in the tall, crumbling apartments of the poor. On corners and gables, over windows and doorways, the old gods peered down at the crowds passing by beneath them, their eyes blank and hungry. Anders shuddered to remember when he had carried Hawke's wasted body through the bleak night, under the faces of these terrible gods.

In the cramped space, the smell of poverty increased. Isabela covered her nose with a delicate handkerchief. Anders stared about sadly, thinking of his clinic in Kirkwall and his efforts to help those people. All for naught, it seemed. He couldn't turn the tide himself, alone, no matter how many people he healed or explosions he caused. Perhaps when this awful affair was over, he appeased himself, he might be allowed to live and continue his work. He might find some other way to change the world around him.

Until then, he swallowed Justice's growing rage at the inequality and oppression around him, at the withered figures of elf and human alike drifting past or curled in the corners. He averted his gaze from the tall, armoured figures of the Imperium's police force parting the seas of dirty citizens and slaves as they walked their patrols.

"So where to, fearless leader?"

Anders rolled his eyes. "I am neither fearless nor a leader. I am neither of those things, Isabela."

"All right then, quavering follower. Where do we go from here?"

"The city's warden outpost is in that direction," he said, gesturing deeper into the city. "They'll probably be in a district with other military facilities. The academic buildings are in the centre, with the ruling magister's estate. The estates of other important magisters will be around it, and I believe they have a section of the city all their own, where the streets are paved in gold, the fountains are full of diamonds, and the like."

"How about we follow him?" Isabela pointed ahead of them, to the young magister's son and his retinue. "I'd wager he's either going to the university or one of those estates."

"Two silvers on the estate," Anders replied, picking up his pace to keep the aristocrat in sight.

"I see your bet and raise you a foot massage." Isabela smirked. "It's been a long walk from Caimen Brea."

They shook on it and turned to their task.

Isabela, it turned out, was an expert in espionage. She alternated between holding Anders back, shoving him forward, and tugging him to the side and drawing his attentiont to this shopkeeper's stall or that piece of Tevinter architecture, ensuring that the lad and his cronies didn't realize they had picked up a tail.

They passed through a rough street barricade, where bored Tevinter guards demanded a toll and an explanation for why Isabela and Anders wanted into the district. Isabela, her posture impeccable, explained that she and her beloved, imbecile brother were merchants in search of wares to take south. Whether from her reason or her subtle bouncing, the guards let them through with minimal trouble.

Past the blockade, the streets widened and began to glow under the late morning sun. Here, furtive slaves in city uniform cleaned the streets, sweeping away debris and scrubbing the statuary. The street vendors' rickety tables disappeared, replaced by canvas kiosks as bright and clean as the city stones. The pedestrian traffic changed to suit, from pilgrims and farmers to well-dressed nobility and their followers, and uniformed servants moving from shop to shop.

Anders nearly lost sight of their target in the milieu of rich fabric and sleek headdresses. Isabela tugged him along, her experience leading them.

They turned onto a wide street, a promenade into the centre of the city. Government buildings, thick with sculpture and hanging banners, robed men and women crowding their steps, shone on either side. Some ways down, a tall iron gate blocked the road, flanked by statues of the Tevinter gods of wisdom and learning. The gate itself nearly writhed with power under the sun, the laurel leaves twisted into the wrought iron practically shivering in a breeze.

"The university," Anders murmured, peering over the heads of the passersby between them and the gates. Past the iron bars, he could pick out the spires and domes of academia, and detect the scent of ancient wisdom and its twisted misuse. His heart throbbed with memory, of sneaking into the university with Fenris and the Warden at his back, unaware of his impending treachery.

"Hah," Isabela cheered quietly. "I win the bet!"

"Yes," Anders agreed.

"Are you all right?"

"Not really." Anders tore himself away from the sight of the gates and his own dismal regret. "We need to turn here," he said, nodding toward a street peeling away from their current route. "The wardens aren't far from here."

"Aw, I wanted to see where he was going." Isabela stared after the young man and the university until Anders led her away.

After paying another toll, they entered a district where the robed figures gave way to armed and armoured, and the architecture took on a hard-lined appearance. Troops of soldiers pushed by, each in the colours of the magister they served. Anders caught snippets of conversations, difficult to decipher with his limited comprehension of Arcanum. He managed to get the impression, though, that these people shared Handsome Vinicius' complaints toward the magisters, that the rulers of the Imperium were spending too much and too quickly on wars and infighting that benefit no one.

Surprisingly, Anders heard nothing of Viscount Hawke's approach. He could only assume that the magisters were keeping this information close to their chests.

Anders led them by feel toward the strengthening pull of the Blight-tainted wardens. He smirked to himself with black humour, at the thought that the wardens felt so similar to darkspawn to him. The two forces stood only a slim distance apart, sharing the same curse.

_And one day, I, too, will descend into the darkness to give myself over to the Blight. After taking out as many 'spawn as I can first._ He wiped his damp brow with an unsteady hand, his fear of the Deep Roads mingling with his current state of mild terror and wretched guilt. _Not now_, he urged himself, exerting physical effort to push those thoughts aside. _Why worry about something that may not even happen? Maker knows, you may get that thief's knife in the back, after all._

They paused before another toll booth. Isabela sighed. "We're going to spend all our money just moving around the city."

"It looks like the wardens took land among the magisterial estates," Anders observed, standing on tip toe to peer over the blockade to the sprawling homes beyond. He saw a lot of walls, each magister surrounded by their own private fortress. "They're very close now."

"Good. Any more tolls and I'll have to resort to either love or violence. Or both."

At the booth, the heavily armoured and immaculately polished imperial soldier looked them over. "You're not citizens," she said brusquely. "What's your business?"

"We need to speak with the Grey Wardens," Anders told her, erring on the side of honesty. In Ferelden, at least, most people shied away from Grey Warden business.

"Why?" In the shadow of her helm, her eyes narrowed. "You look Nevarran."

"What?" Anders glanced down at the coat he had taken from Nevarra City. He shook his head. "No. No, I'm Fereldan. I, uh, just like the style and functionality of their clothing. I'm a Grey Warden myself. There's been trouble in the Deep Roads to the south. I need to speak with my brothers about it."

"What kind of trouble?"

Anders rested back on his heels, surprised by the insistent questioning. _Does she know? Does she know what's coming for her, for her people, for Thedas itself?_ "Darkspawn," he replied simply.

"These are dangerous times, Fereldan," she said grimly, folding her arms with a creak of metal on metal. "You don't look like a Grey Warden."

"Then summon one of them. They'll know what I am. I've been on a long journey, soldier. My uniform didn't survive."

"Hmph." She lifted a hand. Barely a heartbeat later, an elf slid silently out of the shadows behind the blockade. In a clean, knee-length tunic and brass torc, he looked like an administrative servant. "Go to the Grey Wardens," the soldier ordered. "Fetch one of their number to verify the identity of a traveller claiming to be one of their own."

The elf bowed deeply, turned and bolted away.

"Wait here," the soldier directed, nodding toward a nearby square.

At least there were benches by the central fountain and food vendors around the edges. Anders would have nearly been comfortable, if not for the speed with which the day had gone by. Under the hot noon sun, he felt anxious to talk to the wardens and return to Fenris, anxious to prove his loyalty. He itched, too, with proximity to the wardens, with Justice's smouldering anger at the city's stink of oppression, and with his own darkness. These sensations grew stronger in his idleness.

Isabela, after the first few minutes, wandered away to try her key in some likely doors. Anders wished her luck and leaned back against the fountain, one hand trailing in the water, his heavy-lidded gaze on the people passing through the blockade.

He must have drifted off in the heat. One moment he watched an elderly couple step through the blockade with the guard's blessing, the next he trembled with disgusted longing for the Blight, a million whispers in his mind calling him to join them, to kill, to bathe in blood and glory, to give up these scraps of humanity he held so closely. And the deep, deep voice of a sleeping Archdemon, reminding him that he gave himself to the Blight, took the taint into himself and it would claim him soon-

The dream struck so vividly, Anders cried out and leapt forward, raw spirit energy flooding from his fists as he tried to fend off the cloying desires of the Blight.

He ran into a strong shield.

Anders abruptly realized he had been dreaming and stopped himself midway through calling another spell. He hurriedly released the magic and blinked up at the person he had just attacked.

A man stared back at him. He held a shield up between them, through which Anders could just pick out the uniform of the Grey Wardens and a faintly amused expression.

Anders slumped back. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I was...they're not usually so bad."

The warden nodded and dropped his shield. "I, too, once travelled alone. When I returned to my brothers and sisters, the dreams worsened. Perhaps amplified by our numbers?"

"Maybe. Even when I fought with the Commander, we were very few."

"I am Septimus." The warden held out a broad hand. "They told me to verify you are a warden. I knew from the moment I stepped onto the street that you were here."

Anders sagged with relief. Finally, something was going right. "Thank you," he replied fervently, grasping the offered hand. "My name is Anders."

Briefly, so briefly that Anders nearly missed it, Septimus' grip slackened. Then his creases deepened in a smile. "Anders," he repeated. "Welcome and well met."


End file.
